Literature
The Bartender
The old wooden door creaks open as I walk into the bar, my hands restless inside my pockets. I sit down on the barstool closest to the door, my frail hands tapping silently on the counter. Water drips from my wet hair onto the stool as I rub my hands together, in attempt to produce some form of warmth. My teeth chatter as I hear the pouring rain outside the building. Looking around, I see that I am the only customer in the bar. I continue to shiver, wondering if I should stay, or face the heavy rains outside.
A minute passes. And then another. Silence. The rain has faded away. Realising this, I stand, getting ready to leave as