Nobody salts fries anymore. Harsh light from football on big screens bathe the bar. “Oklahoma,” he mutters into the sonic tornado, blue-hued fries untouched. On the stool next to him, a young woman disappears into a smartphone.
He alone watches her delicate fingers. Could anything be that interesting?
“Want anything else?”
He shakes his head. She smiles at the bartender, “More water.”
LEDs flicker a replay. He blinks and one lost smile transposes another. Years ago. One meant for him. Sealed away and broken. “Is that a game?” he asks.
A sidelong glance. “Yeah, Zombie Death.”
He shudders. “Check please.”