To the bar

It turns out that Diego has the keys to the bar that he plays at. The owner had to duck out early last night, and asked Diego to lock up.

The interior of the bar is both familiar and strange during daylight hours. The jukebox is dark and silent, and no longer explains where you are likely to find Billy Ray Cyrus’ friends. There are no drunks to threaten the green felt of the pool table with spilled drinks or poorly-wielded cues. The long bar itself supports the weight of upside-down stools, not elbows or beer bottles.

“No one will be here for hours,” Diego says, pocketing the keys. “So where would you like your birthday present?”