At the bar: Grant S/Cris M
In 2015, no whistle blown, no timecard punched, Cris settled on a bar stool next to a guy he didn't recognize. But, that wasn't weird, not 'round here, not for him. He was still learning faces, and even though Repose was 'bout as big as the tenement he'd lived in as a kid, this was like going down a good few stories and hanging there. You'd see some people you knew, but a lotta them, they were just bodies before. Now you were looking at their faces, and that was always different.
Sam was at Daniel's, so he had a bitta time, and today seemed like a good day for a drink, huh? He was supposed to be offa the stuff, offa everything with Sam, but one beer was nothing, and then he'd go home and start dinner. Well, start his dinner, make Sam's milkshake.—He was outta his blues, just leather jacket over drab hoodie and old jeans and sneakers. And even if he didn't recognize lotsa people, everybody knew the Sheriff. He got nods, waves, and he acknowledged each, leaning into the lengtha his elbow to order a drink.
He looked at the man next to him, gringo, built big, but young looking. When Cris spoke, no matter how many words, it was all Bronx, all in the nose. He smiled. "Hey." He glanced around with black eyes. "Busy night, huh?"