The Wooden Bar

The day was long. He had been sitting at the bar for only thirty minutes. Maybe forty-five. It was cold outside. It was fall. The day had been long. When she walked in he didn't notice, he was staring at the gold neon lights strung haplessly across the back of the cheap bar and the television screen mounted in the corner, which was turned off; and the bartender, whose shirt was just low enough to reveal the pink, lace, padded bra she wore to compensate for what the other bartenders didn't lack.
She sat on the other end of the long, wooden bar. The air outside had been crisp. It was refreshing, autumn. The barstool next to her was broken. She didn't mind. The girl working had been rubbing down the wooden bar with her towel, which looked and smelled as if its daily usage entailed washing her dog, cleaning up its piss, being sprayed with the stuff they use on wood that doesn't actually seem to make things cleaner, then finally being rubbed across that wooden bar at which she now sat.  
"Whisky sour."  
"Ma'am?"  
"Whisky sour, please."
"Hard of hearing in my left ear."  
She glared around at the bar stools and the mirrors on the wall and the dart board and the college girl wiping down the bar. Her coat was still on. So was her scarf.  
"There you go. Open up a tab?"  
"I was here last night. Card should still be behind the bar."  
She looked at the three behind the bar. Tall, Short, Busty. Old, Flat, Works too hard. She felt the need to figure them out. Every detail.  
"Can we turn that television on?"  
"I'll get you the clicker. How about that?"  
When she handed to him, he made sure to brush his hand against hers. Then he looked up at her and gave a smile and a nod, looked down and sighed, then drifted back into his bourbon after turning on news.