One Year Later

My eyes dart to the clock, throwing a glare at the well-dressed man who settles in at the bar. Some handsome, rich bastard, no doubt passing through town on business, at least judging by his suit that portably costs more than a year of my pay. Sure, why not walk in five minutes before last call? Maybe he’ll order, tip big, and fuck off quickly, following the droves of Sour Grape regulars as they settle their tabs and head out for the night.