One night

... and old, fat women with diabetic builds and shoes they can barely walk in, but in which they can dance like ballerinas. Wearing bright-colored dresses that are few sizes too small for them, their belly rolls clearly delineated. Raspy voices and cigarette coughs. Stories they've told a million times, each time just different enough to sound different. The smell of beer that's been on the floor as long as the most loyal patron, jumpy accordian music screaming from the juke box, the clack of pool balls and the sound of confidence from the guy who just broke, grinning unabashedly, showing the gap where teeth once hung. The cold of the fluorescent beer light over the table illuminating the the smoke from cigarettes and the sad faces of those sitting nearby. The bartender pulling out another cold one and hoping the crowd sticks around long enough to make him a little money. On the street, the last bus from downtown drops off the last fare -- a woman who cleans office buildings downtown and has a few kids who don't pay attention and probably won't amount to much. She casts a disapproving glance toward the bar and makes her way home with quick, tired steps. A mangy old dog barks. On the dark porch of a house that's about to fall over she sees the glow of a cigarette being puffed on, but not the smoker. At the same time someone at the bar has become angry over something stupid and is ready to cause some bleeding. Knives are drawn, women are slapped, chests heave, voices rise, the bartender wonders how smart it would be to call the cops. Maybe not, it'll just blow over. Lucky it's just about closing time. Tomorrow's another day.