snap.
“Nothing,” she said.
“It’s nothing.”
Instinctively, her gaze moved in the direction of the mysterious, hat-wearing stranger, but he was no longer on the table. His black cowboy hat was still there, covering the ashtray from which smoke still emanated.
These were the only signs that this chair was occupied just a few moments ago, other than that the owner of the said chair had been able to disappear into thin air, like a figment of Angie’s imagination.
Maybe she did conjure him out of thin air.
Bob was still looking at her. Angie scampered to find a topic to distract Bob.
“What are they doing here?” she asked and couldn’t keep the derision out of the word ‘here’.
Bob noticed.
“Be thankful for the place that keeps the fire in your house burning,” he said dramatically.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Bob squinted at her and then continued telling her about the Grays. Bob loved stories.
“Michael has been away for a few weeks and only just came a couple of days ago. It is their anniversary. They are in a celebratory mood.”
“You know an awful lot about the specifics of their lives,” Angie said.
“I am a bartender. I’ve got trusting eyes. People talk to me.”
“I bet.”
Angie got occupied in day dreaming again, but at that exact moment, an unpleasant voice from the other end of the bar caught her attention.
“Hey, baby doll, look here. Look at me.”
She closed her eyes in a mixture of anger, frustration and exasperation. She tried to ignore the loud voice.
It was Patrick, the one drunk at every bar that had too many drinks and couldn’t hold his liquor. Most nights, he would just fall off his seat and someone would drag him in one corner until he woke up and was sober enough to walk (or strut) home.
But there were some nights, some bad nights, when he would wolf whistle at the few women in the bar. More than often, the lack of women in the bar meant that Angie was the unfortunate victim of his catcalling.
On days when she was suitably angry, she would give him a good old punch if he crossed the line, but mostly he just spewed random sentences from the end of the bar and nobody paid him any attention.
“Come on, don’t be like that,” he said when Angie ignored him.
The people around the bar had seen him do this enough times not to be too worried. Angie had talked several times to Bob about banning Patrick but Bob was too much of a softy to do anything.
Angie was pointedly trying to look in any direction other than Patrick. The trick with him was not to give him any attention. He was a pathetic man clinging to the bottle as a means of going through his life and in the meantime harassing bartenders.
Angie got busy with other customers and filtered the sporadic comments from Patrick when there was a loud thud and every neck in the bar, or at least those sober enough to move their necks with agility and register sudden changes or sounds in their surroundings, turned to look at the source of the noise, which was the door.
Out of the corner of the eye, Angie saw that Mrs. Gary’s lips were not on Mr. Gary’s anymore and she, like everybody else, was taken aback.
The door to the Thirsty Crow was open and the doorway was illuminated from the light inside. A huge figure stood in the light and his silhouette was framed something out of an old school noir. Angie’s breath caught in her throat.
There seemed something out of place with this man. He crossed the doorway and entered the bar. Angie saw his face and gasped. It was the stranger from earlier.
A strand of hair fell over his eyes, and his face was framed by a stubble, thicker around the mouth. He towered over everybody else, as if he belonged to a different species, a superior breed to this lowly crowd here.
He was better looking than all of the people put together in the Crow, Angie noticed. And probably more dangerous, too.
He entered and, without looking at anyone, made his way to the bar. Angie was
“Nothing,” she said.
“It’s nothing.”
Instinctively, her gaze moved in the direction of the mysterious, hat-wearing stranger, but he was no longer on the table. His black cowboy hat was still there, covering the ashtray from which smoke still emanated.
These were the only signs that this chair was occupied just a few moments ago, other than that the owner of the said chair had been able to disappear into thin air, like a figment of Angie’s imagination.
Maybe she did conjure him out of thin air.
Bob was still looking at her. Angie scampered to find a topic to distract Bob.
“What are they doing here?” she asked and couldn’t keep the derision out of the word ‘here’.
Bob noticed.
“Be thankful for the place that keeps the fire in your house burning,” he said dramatically.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Bob squinted at her and then continued telling her about the Grays. Bob loved stories.
“Michael has been away for a few weeks and only just came a couple of days ago. It is their anniversary. They are in a celebratory mood.”
“You know an awful lot about the specifics of their lives,” Angie said.
“I am a bartender. I’ve got trusting eyes. People talk to me.”
“I bet.”
Angie got occupied in day dreaming again, but at that exact moment, an unpleasant voice from the other end of the bar caught her attention.
“Hey, baby doll, look here. Look at me.”
She closed her eyes in a mixture of anger, frustration and exasperation. She tried to ignore the loud voice.
It was Patrick, the one drunk at every bar that had too many drinks and couldn’t hold his liquor. Most nights, he would just fall off his seat and someone would drag him in one corner until he woke up and was sober enough to walk (or strut) home.
But there were some nights, some bad nights, when he would wolf whistle at the few women in the bar. More than often, the lack of women in the bar meant that Angie was the unfortunate victim of his catcalling.
On days when she was suitably angry, she would give him a good old punch if he crossed the line, but mostly he just spewed random sentences from the end of the bar and nobody paid him any attention.
“Come on, don’t be like that,” he said when Angie ignored him.
The people around the bar had seen him do this enough times not to be too worried. Angie had talked several times to Bob about banning Patrick but Bob was too much of a softy to do anything.
Angie was pointedly trying to look in any direction other than Patrick. The trick with him was not to give him any attention. He was a pathetic man clinging to the bottle as a means of going through his life and in the meantime harassing bartenders.
Angie got busy with other customers and filtered the sporadic comments from Patrick when there was a loud thud and every neck in the bar, or at least those sober enough to move their necks with agility and register sudden changes or sounds in their surroundings, turned to look at the source of the noise, which was the door.
Out of the corner of the eye, Angie saw that Mrs. Gary’s lips were not on Mr. Gary’s anymore and she, like everybody else, was taken aback.
The door to the Thirsty Crow was open and the doorway was illuminated from the light inside. A huge figure stood in the light and his silhouette was framed something out of an old school noir. Angie’s breath caught in her throat.
There seemed something out of place with this man. He crossed the doorway and entered the bar. Angie saw his face and gasped. It was the stranger from earlier.
A strand of hair fell over his eyes, and his face was framed by a stubble, thicker around the mouth. He towered over everybody else, as if he belonged to a different species, a superior breed to this lowly crowd here.
He was better looking than all of the people put together in the Crow, Angie noticed. And probably more dangerous, too.
He entered and, without looking at anyone, made his way to the bar. Angie was
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