Your shoulders collide as you jostle for position. The din of the tent smothers you. The brass band, glasses clinking, laughter – pure revelry. A space opens, you shuffle to fill it. You lock eyes with a waiter and raise a single finger. They nod and disappear. Another gap, another shuffle, there’s nowhere else now. The waiter returns with a pristine copper gem. The way it catches the light matches the twinkle in your eye. Märzen time.
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