The Farting Frog

The last night they spent together passed into morning. The moon still shone faintly in the pre-dawn sky as a rising sun colored clouds pink. The night could scarcely be called romantic, recounting the experiences of Northern Ireland during its boom years. They had the IT world by the tail. Launching new websites connected to robust servers, passing financial data between the startups and the world. Times were good; times were bad; times were mostly busy. The boom had passed. Time to move on to greener pastures. He to Silicon Valley; she to I-70 corridor in Maryland. No more nights at the Farting Frog, their escape from tech. The amphibians croaking in the nearby marsh gave the pub its odd name. No one claimed to have heard one pass gas, but everyone thought the name clever. Still, the cruciferous veggies served with dip had foreseeable results among the patrons. Perhaps their paths might cross in the future, at another laughably named establishment.

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