The lounge was a mine disaster: dark, no air, bad smells. Beer taps floated formless behind the bar. Some startled when a voice emerged to take their order.
Not Thom.
A regular, he knew what he wanted, and where it would be placed. He had his cash arranged into bundles of drink plus tip, understanding how important the bartender’s happiness was. He could pour anything. It was only mutual respect that kept Thom from lifting a glass of gall.
(Written for Esquire’s 79-word challenge. Harder than I thought; I felt like Gordon Lish.)
Román Leão 
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