It was just like what we had, growing up so long ago in our own corners of the city. A decent pub.
That familiar daylight seeping in, the dark wood blanketing the walls, those high stools you slip onto as a feeling of greater kinder hands rises up to greet your tush and cradle you.
It was empty except for some guys scattered along the bar. Two were doing construction in the neighborhood, finishing up their burgers. Another, very tan and summery, contemplating going or not going or someone coming in, and in a quieter corner a man older than any bar I ever sat at, just sitting.
A talkative fellow came in, wanting to see the lunch menu.
"Lunch menu same as the dinner one," the waitress told him.
Mick ordered a really good looking chicken sandwich.
I had salmon on lots of salad. I stared longingly at Mick's fries. His beer looked really cute too.
When the bill came, it seemed a bit low.
"Half off for happy hour," the waitress told us.
That bar was just like my favorite bar, I told Mick afterwards. Except it had food and didn't smell of cat pee.
Next time... burgers.
**
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