Prose, poetry, fiction, and rambles from people with a bit too much time on their hands.

littogw

It’s dim enough to hide imperfections and light enough to see a pair of glasses across the room. The air smells like cigarettes and dried beer, slowly being drifted around the room by strategically placed fans. The volume of voices follows the curvature of a famous street in San Francisco, steadily falling and rising; every voice following the same pattern. It’s an odd sound to behold. The outside world barely matters, itself a constantly changing mass of pavement, metal, and electricity. Two people are sitting on worn vinyl stools, one creaking as it yields to the weight of a person, the other wobbling on its precarious base. One person holds a scotch mixed with dashes of water. The other a pint of Guinness that was sitting in the tap for a week. Names never really mattered.

I’ll continue to wait for the day that we meet again and wouldn’t have to say that it’s been a while,” A feminine voice speaks.

“I can’t say that I don’t disagree,” another voice replies. A male, from its timbre.

The barman’s towel slides across the counter, wiping away beads of condensation.

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