He was a roughened and coarse man of perhaps 50, cursing and parting his way to the restroom. Again. I was at the far end of the bar, sipping an amaretto sour, my usual. A worn copy of Steinbeck’s The Pearl lay under my hand as I flicked the yellowing pages. The scene was the same as ever but somehow much more lonely since the pandemic ended.
© 2024 Chevanne Scordinsky
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