Sal held his emptied glass to the dim smog-light. It appeared dingy, fat full of sinking inclusions, bottom permanently caramelized with rye.

He drew silhouettes out of the few stragglers wasting 3:00 a.m. rest on the bottom seat of the bar.

There was B.B. the bartender: water-headed, muscles tuned by anabolic steroids and inactivity. Between air bubbles he resembled the “Man Whose Arms Exploded,” only with Minnesotan Down’s syndrome.

Polly was a puddle at the end of the bar, her tangled blonde hair arcing in chaotic patterns. She oozed onto her chair, probably unaware her parched leather was slowly sucking up her own piss.

He caught a mirror in front of him. By some outside chance it must have been the right angle for the briefest of moments, where two glass structures butt reflective minds. Briefly he saw vibrant blue eyes grunt with life. “B.B?” he sputtered.

No reply.

The morning was young - he grinned - then chucked the pint at the mirror.

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