Heat.

your head splits from the heat of this god's forgotten land and dryness. you don't remember how long you've rode to this damn town, soaked in the smell of horse manure and filled with a bunch of bastards. you don't want to stop here, but you have to take a break, drink a glass of something cool and let your horse to rest too.

saloon as expected, half-empty in this daytime, which is good. whiskey on the tongue feels nice when you sit at the bar as if it were your last stop.

voice that filled the room with caustic accent seems too familiar to you wouldn’t turn around and recognize profile of the person you were obliged to forget.

your joint forbidden night a couple of years ago was accidental. you separated then without any goodbye, because you didn't have a story, because none of you are a gal.

but you look for so long, phantomically feeling this quiet and low growl in your ear - Dutch empties his glass, sitting at the table with some strangers, when, turning around, finally meets your eyes.