Barn wood and old brick separate two worlds. After a wandering a large portion of the day we stopped at a small tavern. The cool air poured out of the car as I opened the door. The dry warm air moved across my skin–a lovers reminder from the desert: if you tarry, you will be mine.
The sun washed colors to a dull powder. The tavern door, grey wood cracked with age, had a rusty hasp that served as a door handle, and a way to secure the building. Inside, the sun was barred from entry. Cigarette smoke and country music assailed my senses. Locals, suspect of an open door, turned on their bar stools. I’m familiar with small town interest. It’s a strange blend of anger and curiosity. It’s very similar to an aggressive dog. Respect it, but don’t run, it shows weakness.
Frustrated Hedonist 