The bar
My old neighbourhood haunt was a simple, square room with the leftovers of a brown carpet, where the beer came cheap and just slightly watery. There was always just enough light by the television to read a National Enquirer, and the night waitress was always polite. She was maybe 10 years older, dyed her hair black, and after watching me debate whether to laugh when a guy sent over a beer, she made sure it never happened again. Pleasantly quiet evenings followed.
Still, I was surprised when she told me I was obviously a nice girl, and she liked nice girls.
Pleasantly quiet evenings continued to follow despite my churlish disinterest -- though I tipped better.
I met her off-stage one afternoon on a chilly sidewalk, tears streaming down her face. Her father had died, back home in Eastern Europe.
Months later, popping out of the convenience store, I watched a world-weary butch stop in front of the bar -- oversized pants, stringy hair, scarred hands. She pressed her nose up against the window.