The Bar of No Return
In the bar it was hot, smoky, stale and dripping.
Last night’s smoke still seemed to leave a stronger taste on the palate than the
uncontrollable spirals that were now rising from Mendosa’s gold-tipped
cigarette, which emitted a sickly sweet Balkan tang.
Bobby twirled bottles to an unappreciative audience of regulars who seemed not
to notice the perfect timing, the coordination and skill embodied in this
display. His act was an automatic one for him, it passed the time, but more
important, it gave him a feeling of purpose and achievement while working at a
job which seemed condescending. It also seemed like hard work. It seemed like
hard work not because of the rush of Rita’s rapid fire ordering of drinks, but
the conversations with partially and , all too often totally, drunk customers.
Rita was stunning. Auburn hair streamed like a waterfall to her shoulders, long
enough to cause her to swirl it – by swoop-turning her head….
To be continued.
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