I glance over to the woman with the steno pad. Her short-cropped, graying hair makes her look rugged. Her face looks like it's seen its fair share of wind and rain. She's wearing green checkered flannel over a light sweater. Maybe she's an outdoor writer, used to how quickly Montana nights can steal your warmth if you aren't prepared. She's no longer scribbling on her pad. Instead she seems to have taken an unusual interest in the man under the cowboy hat.
My eyes skirt over to what seems to have piqued her interest. The man slouches back, his salt and pepper goatee tucked down tight against his adam's apple. The brim of his weathered hat dips to just below his eyebrows, hiding half his face. There's a stub of a Marlboro dangling between a pair of cracked lips. He's wearing one of those duster coats which hangs down the legs of his bar stool.
I can see the calluses of his hands from across the bar. His left thumb flicks the lid off his brass Zippo, igniting it in one smooth, practiced motion. He snaps it shut, killing the flame, only to repeat the motion a few seconds later. Each time the wick flares, the shadow masking his face recedes for a second, just enough to give a tantalizing glimpse. His features are a peculiar mix of Native and European blood.
It's hard to tell from his face alone how old he is. Past the goatee and hint of stubble, his cheeks look creased but not wrinkled. It's the look of constant windburn. He can't be much older than me. Middle thirties at most. I can tell by the glint in his eyes. Focused. Ravenous. Their amber irises flicker within the shadow mask like the flame of the Zippo they pretend to concentrate on.
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| Source : Wikipedia Commons |
