The philosopher, butcher, and the lover sat at the bar. Raj sandwiched, with a bitter beer, considered a joke. One said the spirit was weak, she said the meat was willing, and they sipped and gulped. The market square outside under a looming iron age castle, was a place of public hanging in the past.
The music was vibrant, the dancing not so keen. The next round of whiskey made the dancing merrier. The butcher got up to step outside, the lover solidaired, and Raj followed to see if he could bum a smoke from them; fairly certain that being the reason for exit given their unpaid and unfinished drinks. She graciously lit the cigarettes. There was a long silence, communal, as the smoke was inhaled and rose into the crisp late spring night. Not many words were said, as the butcher, lover, and Raj played Rorschach tests with the swirling smoke.
Back in and settled into the chairs at the bar; the philosopher, Raj, butcher, and lover (placed in that order) reconnected with their drinks. The philosopher called up to the the becoming bartender, thanked us for our company, and picked the tab. We gladly acquiesced. And he walked out without saying good night.
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