His hair slick and calmed back, tight, tight like he does it every sunday. As sticky as the well ironed grey trousers and the brown shirt tugged in, he really looks like a wet towel and everything ends in a nightmare of white socks and matching white sailor-shoes. 

It only all to well matches the amount of shit he allows himself to say, indifferences, it most be his ass talking but I can see his lips moving, and I hear him being cheered to go on, I dont know, I could be wrong and him right, I know I am in the wrong place, but that doesnt help me. He ass is wider than the barstool, he seems to merge with it, It aint nice of me to think like this, that is what I consider before I leave and why I must leave: This really aint good. 

In their smile an idea but I dont know which. That smile have come home from somewhere.