Bar: none.

Some, but that came later, before the Storm.

Feinting prospective perspectives in a liquid courtship dance.

Battle-hewn raspy arm-hanger; an atomic attraction superseded by only another, stronger bond with another even-more-disparate valency solidified by $, and cigarettes.

The bar—recently-raised (built upon the coattails of another less-nimble establishment)—attracting decadent frutillaries, frustrated servers shut-out of their tips by the ebb-and-flow of where the $ flows, basic families seeking respite from the water falling from the sky, itinerant workers (your humble Narrator, included), and bored residents seeking solace from the busy-ness of the daily Mess in which we find ourselves.

It is only the singular observer who remembers the proper steps of the Dance.

It is only I that actually sees these things.

It is only this Spy who is able to eventually escape the grasp of such a fever; never bored of actually being barred from such restrictive entanglement; no-mind to the enticements; no fear for the loss.

4118 Restaurant & Bar; Highlands, NC