Crows in the back field, behind the bar, Jim’s Bar & Grill, apt, since Jim has no imagination beyond mixing the perfect Manhattan. He is all grim and gray, the secular saint of alcohol, the ghost of hangovers future. The crows screech and they tumble in the air, showoffs, like high school jocks unconscious of their own fluid beauty. They holler their hauteur, and invite their own kind to a kill or the freshly wounded. They are galling, and stutter across the plain white sky, bold, full of ego. We don’t care what you think, we fly, we are a dark symphony. Sit down on your stools and order your tequila and sugary cocktails. We will still be here when you leave, and our music will make you anxious. Jim can also pour a decent sour.
“Gin?” he asks, as if it’s a real question.
She nods, and can still hear the crows over George Jones, and will for the duration.