Ebb.

March 6, 2007

The music flows through the air. Always audible, but never loud. Perfect.

The students sit noisily at the bar. I wonder just how they can afford to go to such an expensive bar, and spill as many beers as they have. They leave after a few, probably onto their next destination.

The old man I recognise as a street busker sips quietly on his ale. He chats with a fellow ex-hippie about music, all the while looking like he’d rather be left alone. He picks small change out of his pocket and pays for his next drink — presumably, the profits he made today.

The couples sit in the dining area, cooing at each other. The atmosphere is just right for them. They’re having a night out, but the atmosphere is such that they needn’t pay attention to anyone but themselves.

The bargirl serves customers effortlessly, her hair swooshing around as if she were in a shampoo advert. She’s the pretty girl who only receives complements from the drunken old men. The image she has of herself does not match her physique.

The bouncer stands solemnly at the door, his grimace giving away the fact that he’d rather be working on a night that wasn’t so wet. He doesn’t even greet newcomers or bid them farewell.

The bar is quiet yet people come and go. I love the ebb and flow of a bar on a midweek night.

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