Gitana

Pascual shoves his chair into place and stows the broom. Antonio has started to play, quietly, a slow mournful siguiriya. Behind the bar Pascual starts on the glasses. He loves the first moments of the shift, in the drowsy late afternoon when the sun still just reaches the walls across the narrow street. Later in the evening Sara will appear. A shadow darkens the door and Pascual looks up from the sink . . .