The tall, lanky man stepped into the bar, pulling in the icy air with him. His smooth gray suit, fresh from Goodwill, was clean and musty. His felt fedora was fuzzy and had a thick black ribbon around it. A cane supported his limp as he made his way past me and to the bar. He ordered a beer. He drank half of it in one gulp. The man behind the bar knew this type, had seen him before--just wants to drink, don't care to make conversation--he ignored him except to feed him his delicate booze.
The old man picked up his cane and limped over to the jukebox. He emptied his pocket of quarters and soon the voice of Hank Williams filled the empty stale air. He returned to his beer, finished it, ordered another, along with whiskey, and set his roots down for the night on a rickety old wooden bar stool. Meanwhile, Hank sung out in loud despair about a cold, cold heart.
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