The door creaked open, admitting a gust of salty Atlantic air and a young woman in a sharp, charcoal suit. She didn't look like she belonged in a place where the floorboards groaned under the weight of secrets. She scanned the room, her eyes landing on the slumped shoulders at the end of the bar.
Bob finally turned his head, his eyes bloodshot but sharp. "And what’s that?"
A slow, tired grin spread across Bob’s face. He took a final sip of his scotch and stood up, his joints popping like small firecrackers. "Well," he said, adjusting his worn cap. "If they’re asking about me, I suppose it’s time I gave them an answer they won’t forget."
The flickering neon sign of "The Happy Landing" bar buzzed with a rhythmic, dying hum that matched Bob’s current mental state. Inside, the air smelled of stale beer and missed opportunities.
Bob sat at the far end of the mahogany bar, nursing a lukewarm scotch. He wasn't a tall man, but he carried a weight that made him seem to take up more space than he actually did. In this small coastal town, everyone knew Bob, but lately, everyone was asking the same question. “What about Bob?”