You did not frequent bars or taverns in your youth; they have always been the type of establishment advertised as fun, a way to meet people and socialize under the warm ambience of the room, but most often sent you patients with alcohol-induced headaches who could have avoided the visit with a little rest. It looks as though things haven’t changed a whole lot, but you find yourself in one anyway and you’re -- not entirely sure why.
Though you are not a doctor in the formal sense of the word anymore, you are never off the clock. You can’t drink on a job that requires you to be capable at all times, and you won’t. Nobody seems to be overindulging to the point where you would need to intervene, fortunately -- and they appear to offer meals. You make a selection and pay -- with their offered help when you cannot get this thing to work -- and turn towards the rest of the bar with a quiet, watchful eye.
The music is pleasant, melodic keystrokes filling the air, a soft complement to the ongoing conversations. You decide to approach the pianist to offer your compliments, and pause -- you know this person, even if you’ve never spoken. He wasn’t very talkative, you recall, and maybe for good reason; better to be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt, and all that. You know quite a few people from the manor who removed doubt, to your displeasure.
You wait patiently until he’s finished, and then some, before you speak up.
“Greetings, Mr. Carl. I didn’t know you played.”
@rebirthed plays for a captive audience !
