walking through the door she is greeted by a few half assed hellos she nods and heads to the familiar stool she usually occupies at the end of the bar the stool is maroon, cracked vinyl and wobbles dangerously when she sits she instinctively reaches for her cigarettes kept in her jacket pocket then stops with annoyance recalling the ban '***** rocks, joe' and the iced, clear drink seems to appear out of nowhere 'keep em' comin'' she sighs hungrily after the first sip and settles deeper, more relaxed, into her seat again, the cigarettes again, the weary shake of her head she perks a little when reaching for her drink
joe gives way to dave and the late afternoon creeps into early evening the clinking of glasses becomes more frequent all the stools and most of the tables are filled