"Coincidence is the word we use when we can't see the levers and pulleys."
Emma Bull
The Oasis. The local watering hole. A friendly, run-down bar separated from the noise and intensity of the city. The subdued nature of the Monday night crowd is drowned out by the cries of men playing poker in the corner of the room. The bartender silently pours three shots while observing the scene. The street outside the plate glass windows is unusually quiet, even for a weeknight.
Three men sit silently at the bar, side by side. They are all lost within themselves, hardly even acknowledging the existence of their neighbors. The bartender slides them their shots as he walks past. The man on the left is staring into another dimension. He wears a smart black jacket and a red shirt. His dress speaks young business pro, but his eyes tell a story of terrible misfortune. To the right sits a large ball of hair in a green hoodie. Every now and then, a mumble of protest seems to bleed through the fabric of his jacket. At the turn of the bar sits a young man holding a panicked internal dialogue. He is dressed to impress, in a black suit and tie and a blue shirt. His nervousness seems to put the other men on edge even more than they already are. With a single glance, it is plain to see what runs through his head.
He takes a breath, sighs, and reaches for his shot. The other men do the same.
"It's gonna be okay. We're gonna be okay. ...right?"
"Yeah... right."
to be continued
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