He had been at the bar all afternoon, and now the twilight was coming down. He did not appear to be drunk, melancholy yes. He had said little, other than to order his next drink. Red wine – a shiraz from the Coonawarra. He liked potato crisps, Salt and vinegar crisps. Mostly he just rocked back on a leg of his bar stool, tapping a coaster in his left hand. Contemplative.
Every so often, he would glance sideways to catch the big screen in the corner. A match between Manchester United and Aston-Villa. From his reaction, one could hardly say the outcome mattered to him. He paid scant attention to the barmaid, other than to grunt out his order. He did not spare as much as a glance to the woman on his right, eating fillet mignon with salad and fries.
Poking out of his breast pocket was a hand-written letter.