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
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