He looks down at the glass. Holding it at the base, which is slight weighted, the layer of thickened glass surmounted by thin walls, no longer filled, but still with enough ice to produce a metallic click when shaken, or held and rotated in a circular motion, as he does now, peering down, watching the nearly clear liquid swirl around, agitated by the motion and the remaining chunks. The clicking diminishes as the rotation develops into a rhythm. A smallish whirlpool silences the ice, and he stares, more distracted than fascinated, into the vortex.

The elements that spiral outward from there are the expected: broken rings of water from where the glass has rested, shiny but still mildewy wood, the edges of which are worn and frayed, dingy light, stale air, regardless of the time of day, floors that might be noted as sticky, stools and chairs with torn, red vinyl covers, the tufting protruding at the burred corners. A heavyset and taciturn man runs a threadbare and gray rag over the mostly empty, varnished wood bar top.

Light leaks in, late afternoon light, still sharp as it struggles through the dust layered on the door, which is straddled by two bays, neither conducive to seating, instead filled with piles of news publications of uncertain vintage. The tarnished hue is an unreasonably gentle and pleasing antidote to the unassuming and unexceptional pedestrian quality otherwise in evidence.

There is a tree, trapped by a small iron fence and guarded by refuse bags. He knows this only because it they intrude on the pathway to the entrance, and are otherwise invisible from his perch inside. The view from the stool is the only the slim trunk, standing defiantly, the arrogance of youth. Given the debilitating environs, it may just as well be the stance of the aged and indignant. The modesty of his tenure leaves this question open.

As he imagines it all to be very typical, it is not without a degree of humility. Though he has long surrendered to believing one can form an accurate image of oneself as perceived by others, being far too varied and subjective, this does not mean his own notion is one of superiority of exception. Looking through those yellowed windows, the illuminating rays would fall without fanfare on any of these late afternoon patrons, who seem better defined by the observation that their attendance is more likely the result of having nowhere else to be than some constructed intention, and likely he would be indistinguishable from the rest.

He is reasonably certain such a conclusion would not be unreasonable and does suspect that he is guilty of at least some presumption regarding his compatriots, but aside from pondering the slim and valiant tree and the sloshing, very diluted whisky, there is little else to see, and he has devoted considerably energy, relatively speaking, as one who has nowhere else to be, drinking too quickly in this late afternoon, to observe them, and such a conclusion seems the most fair, if not the most accurate.