A Piece of the Action
Copyright (c) 2011 by Simon Haynes
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It was midday, and the ceiling fans threw flickering shadows on the walls as they pushed humid air around the deserted bar. Several flies described lazy squares in mid-air, four left turns to nowhere. Their fallen comrades were piled three deep on the warped sills under the narrow, dirty windows. It was hot, humid, oppressive.
I was sitting on a stool, my elbows on the scarred wooden counter near a glass of beer. I'd been sipping the lukewarm liquid for an hour now, eking it out while the barman huffed and muttered and threw disapproving looks in my direction. The glass held barely an inch of amber fluid, my only remaining possession.
The barman glanced at me, his sweating face dark with a five o'clock shadow. His black eyes travelled from my face to the glass and back again. 'Want another, senor?'
I shook my head and took a sip, grimacing as the stale, warm fluid trickled down my throat. The barman snorted and returned to his polishing.