Snapshot: Whatever

Canoe base, night.  Outdoor bar, live band.  Throaty, wobbly experimental electro music.  White dude with locked hair bopping in the glow of his laptop screen.  An unbuttoned office-worker type plays clarinet in time, and a third guy strums an upright bass.  A fourth member sits cross-legged onstage, fiddling with something.

I wait at the bar with F, among a pushy mass of people.  It’s finally my turn to be served; the bartender gives a “hello,” and I respond with an echo.  A woman who’s elbowed her way through the crowd has usurped my place and blurts out her order before me, and he sets about serving her.

Incredulous, I raise an eyebrow at her.  She avoids eye contact and flashes her cracked smile at the bartender, exposing a silver tooth in questionable condition, and cigarette-stained gums.

Whatever.  F and I take our drinks, and watch the quartet onstage, nodding vaguely and politely in time with the noise.

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