That’s the rhythm of it. The delivery truck’s just pulled away, the sun’s already dipping behind the silos, and someone’s realised the tap list never got updated. Again. It’s the feeling of sprinting toward something that’s already halfway gone — but laughing anyway because there’s a cold one in your hand and that counts for something. Foam clinging to the glass, condensation sliding down like a slow apology. You missed the moment, sure. But you didn’t miss the pour.

It’s the soundtrack of small-town Fridays and half-finished plans. A day late and a dollar short… beers beers beers. The mates who show up after the raffle’s been drawn. The keg that kicks just as the best story starts. The bar light flickering like it’s in on the joke. And somehow, despite the timing, despite the short change, there’s abundance in repetition. Not perfection — repetition. Another round. Another crack of a can. Another chorus of “cheers” rolling across the room like it’s always been right on time.