Nov 16, 2015
The door beckoned, so he pushed through it. Even the street was better lit. He didn’t know how, he just knew—the patron seated at the corner table was his man. Spectacles, unkept hair, old sweater, one bottle, one glass. Elbows on the bar and foot on the rail, he strained for calmness until the barkeep finally appeared. A meek “bourbon, rocks,” left his lips, then he shuffled a bill he thought was a five onto the bar, pocketed the change, tugged on the drink, and let his feet move him to the corner table. “I wanna talk to you...” The stranger slowly greeted him with his eyes, as if he was expected, and replied “What about, son?” Resisting the urge to look away, the words just fell “...those Rutherford rays...”
