Glass Ceiling

A short story

My friends and I often haunt a particular pub in the centre of town. It's one of those franchise places, you know the type. There's one of them on almost every corner, with low lights, an intimate atmosphere and booths for couples and small groups to congregate. The alcohol is cheap, and the food is reasonable. You can buy a jacket potato for next to nothing. We often pass by on Friday nights or Saturday evenings: a place to meet with friends on the way to a nightclub.

Yesterday afternoon I finished work early and decided to head in the direction of town. It had been raining quite heavily, so before long I found myself taking shelter in the pub I've been talking about. It was a different experience to be there alone, but as it was lunchtime I was swept along by the dozens of commuter types and retired marrieds looking for a quiet spot to take a bite. I found a quiet spot of my own, bought myself a glass of beer and took a copy of Kafka's short stories out of my knapsack.

The pub's interior design is typical of a franchise: its intentions veer towards modern, clean and contemporary surfaces, but there's a conscious effort to incorporate traditional features to draw the punter's eye. It gives youngsters the impression they're drinking cocktails at a hip city bar, while the older folks can sip their pints or order food in what ostensibly feels like it could be a traditional pub. 

One of the details that has always caught my eye is the glass floor to be found upstairs. The glass is partially frosted, and flanked by two large, comfortable leather sofas. Groups congregate there all the time, and people are constantly remarking on the view down to the ground floor. And I can understand why. It's an exciting feeling to be standing on the glass, suspended above it all - looking down at the people below.

But today brings an entirely different perspective. The quiet corner I have chosen to read my book is on the ground floor, almost directly below the glass ceiling. As I think about it, I suddenly imagine the glass beginning to crack above my head. I look up, and see the soles of a dozen muddy shoes.