Dzinski sat at the farthest wobbly table from the front of the bar. He set his jacket and hat on the chair opposite him and sipped his beer. Most nights, the dance floor to his right would be full, people dancing, laughing and groping each other, but it was still early and the bandstand was curtained and dark.
A couple handfuls of afternoon drinkers were scattered through the room. Some at the bar reading the paper, spinning coins or just staring at themselves in the streaked mirror, others grouped in the booths with a deck of cards or a cup and dice, and three or four of the most solitary seated at one of the two chairs around tables just like his.
“You remind me of a man I used to know,” the waitress said, switching out his empty bottle for a full one. “I mean you look like him a bit, is all, same sort of face. For a second there, when I was on the other side of the bar, I thought I was seeing a ghost.”
“You just might be,” he said.
She gave him a light tap on the shoulder.
“Have you had anything to eat today?” she said. “I get a break in about twenty minutes; I figure maybe you want to come with me to the diner across the street? They make a pretty decent roast beef.”
“That sounds like a fine idea,” he said, smiling. “Is their gravy homemade or from a can?”
Prompt courtesy of BeKindRewrite‘s Inspiration Monday.