Wednesday Afternoon at the Eight-Ball Saloon

Stale-popcorn hospitality

carries me forward. When
we finish each four-dollar


pitcher, I refill the basket for
the table. The jukebox trades
Merle Haggard for Beyoncé. I


can’t clearly catch anything
said by the people around


me. I can’t make out the


lyrics. Someone is queen of


the aspirational divas. Someone
seems to have made an excellent
age-specific insight. It’s not


my generation. She laughs and
awaits my response. I smile, nod
Want to read more?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.