Two gray-haired guys sit with elbows on the bar, sharing a pitcher, glancing occasionally at the guy beside them, who has Down syndrome. His relation to these guys isn’t clear and his age is tough to read but he’s definitely younger, if maybe not by much, and his hair is red and his smile constant, his jersey green and orange, and he’s staring, enchanted, at the bottomlit backbar where the bottles twinkle like candied treasure and from which the tender pours for everybody their one-ounce reprieve.
It’s all guys here at the moment, everyone’s quiet, and when somebody opens the door the sound of hardfalling rain rips the silence and a chorus of groans comes up.
“Goddamnit,” says one guy.
There’s a murmur of accord.
Another guy raises his rocks glass with its little red straw and says, for all to hear, “There’s worse places to be stuck in a rainstorm.”
Everybody smiles or laughs and we raise our bottles and glasses and cans, friends for a minute.