Frank Kowalski sat at the bar and drank a beer he did not enjoy. The TV above the mirror showed a baseball game with the sound off. Players moved across the screen in silence, swinging at pitches that made no sound, running bases that led nowhere.
He had been drinking since four PM. It was eight now. His hands were on the bar top. The varnish was worn where generations of drinkers had rested their elbows, and his hands fit into the worn spots like they had been made for them. He had been unemployed for six months. His wife left three years ago. His son lived in Ohio and did not answer his phone. He came to this bar every day. The...
0 Commentaires 0 Parts 27 Vue 0 Aperçu