After a drink or two, he had a cigarette with his number on it. give it to you, “Do you want it?” you knew it was wrong but you palmed it.

For you, new to town, the bar seemed to be a safe zone; dark enough to hide in your corner, with the live music, the rhythm of guitar and the old voice of the singer.

He was seen playing the guitar sometimes, rough fingers knowing well what to do with delicate strings. today though, he was beside the counter, you could smell the malt liquor of his breath.