11°C. Wind S, blustery. Bottles lined up as carefully as soldiers. Gaetan searched the unfamiliar bar for a bottle of Scapa, a drink he could never have served at Club Rebar even if someone had had the money to ask for it. He found the bottle and poured a dram of liquid over ice. “Why don’t you tip that bottle forward a little further and I’ll tip you a little better,” said the man who sat across from Gaetan at the bar. The man was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, but they were neatly pressed and looked expensive. Thick material, nothing frayed. Gaetan noted the thick, gold chain around the man’s wrinkled neck, the dented wedding ring, and how everyone who passed by nodded at him. He filled the glass three fingers deep. The man gave him an appreciative smile, took a sip, and slipped Gaetan a crisp twenty-dollar bill. This city and its people, the occasional random extravagances, didn’t make sense to Gaetan, but he accepted them more than he did most things he understood back home.
