He didn't care much for the men—boys, more like, least to him—playing pool. Didn't care for the women, either. Sure, Graham saw them real clear, acknowledged their presence, but they didn't interest him. They existed in the same space for now, till one moved elsewhere. Simple as that. His drink went down slow, slow, more lazy than savoring, and his gaze was just as slow to look up when somebody new walked in. A woman, gloves and a sweater—he raised his eyebrows, a quick flash of a thing that wasn't meant for anybody but himself.
The pool players noticed her, too, but in a different way.
Maybe if he'd been the bartender, or even the owner, he'd've been obligated to say hello. But he wasn't none of those things and he wasn't obligated to do a damn thing. Graham looked over at something nobody else'd see, a brief flicker over the shoulders of the living, before he looked back down at his drink. Waited, maybe, for something to happen. Or simply for time to pass.