By Sarah Askins
The bar closes in ten minutes. Only three customers left, WhiskyBreath and RumFace slouch over the bar, their eyes toward the door. They never talk until Patron arrives.
“Patron call you?”
“Nah, you?” RumFace asks Barman, but he ignores them in favor of WineGirl’s red polished nails. Patron never missed a Tuesday Two-for-Two special. He’d walk in and order his four then slug them back before trying to get up WineGirl’s skirt.
Tonight, he didn’t show, and everything at the bar feels as if someone pressed pause. The phone rings. Barman answers, looks toward the pair and mouths, “Patron’s dead.”