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(WSS 12/1 Direct)

There was, very nearly, a direct path between her home and the tavern and Brandi marched along it, determined.

She had not realized the path was there, decades before when her husband had chosen the home, but he certainly had.

It was convenient, at least, when a certain time in the evening rolled around.

She passed through the last set of shrubs and there it was, already lively.

But Brandi had her guitar with her and she was ready for anything. That path to the tavern had ended up paved in metaphorical gold.

(And beer, of course.)