he lurches in, disrupting quiet that exists high above the moody ballads of fallen axe welders. he is drunk, half asleep and hungry. he is hostile and paranoid because he can see in your eyes that you do not want to even approach the stink of beer wafting toward you, safe behind your wall of judgement.
he shuffles in, holding up his pants as they sag madly toward his knees. he scowls in every direction with bloodshot eyes. he finds your armor and knows he is going to get whatever he came for.from you. you with the apron. it is the last time he will look directly at you. from now on he will stare everywhere over your shoulder, slouching halfway out of the booth.
he bounces in, usually with friends. they all bounce. they are a stunning array of neon and chunky highlights. they are boisterous and fun. and fucking annoying. shrieking for attention. drunk and unprepared for human interaction, they suck time like oxygen. unless you are fabulous, you will be forgotten when it comes time to get paid.
he lingers at the door, finishing a smoke. you do not know how he moves because, though he moves slowly, to the beat, he is quiet and moves straight to the bar. ink and leather or ink and some obscure band logo stretch across his upper body, always thin, sometimes toned, depending on his instrument. you deliberately catch his eye in the mirror. he gives you a cool, appraising look that will become an all out, bloodshot gaze by the time he makes his way to the bottom of that bottle of jack.
he saunters in, suit jacket unbuttoned to reveal an undone tie, he rakes his hand through his hair and scans the crowd, while simultaneously grabbing a newspaper from the stack. He takes a booth near the door and picks up the drink list. he smiles as you walk over, makes a polite joke about always being early and reads happily while sipping the beer you get to him at break-neck speed. your heart drops a little as a woman so clearly not in an apron kisses him hello and murmurs about his interesting choice in bars.