According to Yelp, it's a dive bar with live music. The drinks are a bit over-priced and the venue's a bit stale, but it's the perfect location for the two of us to lean against the jukebox. We dissolve into the background, her and me, discussing this and that, but mostly this, sipping our Fat Tires and, at times, momentarily quiet, letting the music color in our empty spaces. We're, hands down, the youngest and there's a lady in hippie dippy garb twirling in circles. In between songs, the dancing stops, and she sits on her stool at the bar, and gulps her cocktail. "Another one, please," she motions and back to twirling. "Nice pantalones," says the singer and the dancer nods and keeps on twirling.
After one drink, we call it a night; it's a mutual decision. "It's gone flat," she says and, showing me the remaining liquid, gives the bottle a good shake and takes a final swig. It's one of those nights where you spend more time getting there, than you do at the actual destination. Most of the night, in fact, was spent in the car, fidgeting with the radio scanner, listening to the end of songs.
After one drink, we call it a night; it's a mutual decision. "It's gone flat," she says and, showing me the remaining liquid, gives the bottle a good shake and takes a final swig. It's one of those nights where you spend more time getting there, than you do at the actual destination. Most of the night, in fact, was spent in the car, fidgeting with the radio scanner, listening to the end of songs.
No comments:
Post a Comment