James at the bar [open]
There was a small, cosy bar in the Lodge. It was generally only open after midday and shut at around four in the afternoon, before opening again at about six, around dinner time. The bar was furnished with tables and chairs, as well as oversized couches by the bay window or around the open fireplace. There were deer heads and other prized animal trophies mounted on the walls, a certain reminder to everyone that they were without fail in Montana, a hunter’s paradise.
It was around two in the afternoon and James was sat at the bar with a cold beer in front of him. He was casually dressed in jeans and a neatly laundered dark grey t-shirt, decently presented even though he had no particular reason to be decently presented. Habit, perhaps. Or part of the façade he still maintained, no matter how many miles away from everything familiar that he was.
Well, no he wasn’t, really. Cuddy was here, and James was yet to learn that Stacy was, too. He’d been unsettled about that ever since Sophie told him when he was sitting by her down at the lake. Unsettled, he wasn’t sure why. Probably because it further pressed home the issue that it didn’t matter how far he tried to outrun his problems they always had a way of catching up with him. Somehow. There was no such thing as running away from his problems; there was no such place far enough. He was quickly learning this very basic and unpleasant fact.
James stared down pensively at the counter, his elbows propped on the edge and his forearms stretched across the surface. Greg, when James had left the room, was napping, though he wasn’t convinced Greg was actually sleeping. Or going to sleep. But either way, James took the opportunity to get himself a beer and relax for a while on his own until at least the bar closed.
“Can I get you anythin’ else, sir?” the guy behind the bar asked, leaning his hands against the countertop.
James snapped out of his zoned state and peered at the man. He shook his head. “Thanks. Should be fine,” he replied, and he closed his hand around the beer and lifted it to his lips for another sip.
It was around two in the afternoon and James was sat at the bar with a cold beer in front of him. He was casually dressed in jeans and a neatly laundered dark grey t-shirt, decently presented even though he had no particular reason to be decently presented. Habit, perhaps. Or part of the façade he still maintained, no matter how many miles away from everything familiar that he was.
Well, no he wasn’t, really. Cuddy was here, and James was yet to learn that Stacy was, too. He’d been unsettled about that ever since Sophie told him when he was sitting by her down at the lake. Unsettled, he wasn’t sure why. Probably because it further pressed home the issue that it didn’t matter how far he tried to outrun his problems they always had a way of catching up with him. Somehow. There was no such thing as running away from his problems; there was no such place far enough. He was quickly learning this very basic and unpleasant fact.
James stared down pensively at the counter, his elbows propped on the edge and his forearms stretched across the surface. Greg, when James had left the room, was napping, though he wasn’t convinced Greg was actually sleeping. Or going to sleep. But either way, James took the opportunity to get himself a beer and relax for a while on his own until at least the bar closed.
“Can I get you anythin’ else, sir?” the guy behind the bar asked, leaning his hands against the countertop.
James snapped out of his zoned state and peered at the man. He shook his head. “Thanks. Should be fine,” he replied, and he closed his hand around the beer and lifted it to his lips for another sip.