Rectitude
“The door creaks too, simply amazing. How did you get the wood to smell aged as well?” The attendant behind the bar shrugged, only to continue drying glasses, fastidious in his approach and unmoved by the new potential guest, or more likely, a passing tourist. He made a few tentative steps closer to the bar, wondering if they were closed, only to see a few people scattered in corners, some in small built-in nooks along the wall, others seated alone at tables, slowly sipping their drinks, waiting for something or someone that was to never arrive. At first glance, it was a pensioners destination as described. The bartender finally motioned him forward, resigned that he was not peering in to see the faithful recreation, only to leave, like so many others. Without a word he placed a menu before him, pointing to one of the bar stools, and walked to the back room. The young traveler accepted his designation, sat down, and ran his finger down the menu without reading, peering to the side to ascertain the clientele. The discordant theme of the entire area, this establishment, was made all the more palpable, or maybe more vibrant, by the customers. Together they were out of place, but alone, ensconced in their various stages of drink, or conversation, were perfectly situated on the chalky black and white tile.
