Six people at the bar. All men. Four wearing white t-shirts. They drink leisurely; in the hour I am there, they have one, maybe two beers.
The bartender dries glasses with white towels. She rubs and rubs and I think, surely it’s dry by now. She calls one by his name and makes a joke. Like they do this every Friday.
Who has time on Friday at 3 to drink a beer? Aren’t there kids to pick up? Final reports to make? Isn’t there something broken that needs to be fixed? Right now? This is the hour we wrap up the week, tuck papers into whatever file they belong and clear our workspaces for next week.
Granted, I am here, too. And I study the menu written on the wall-length mirror on the bar and consider a beer myself. I’m not usually a beer drinker, but what with all the local brews on the menu and skinny-jeaned hispter waiter here, a beer seems like the proper choice. Maybe just one to nurse while we plan a presentation. There’s daylight and driving still.
The men at the bar are living a different life, with different time and different rules. Different music. Different work. Different kids. They put on coats and walk out and back into whatever a Friday is.
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