She carefully shines the bottom of a tall thin Collins glass. She has the time. The bar is dead. The creak of the door breaks the silence. She looks up. Unhurried.
“Has Mr. Williams been by yet?” he asks, sitting down. She picks up another glass.
“Didn’t he die two weeks ago?”
“Two weeks,” he agrees. “I buried him a week ago and he still hasn’t found his way here?”
“Nope, no sign. But this fellow here,” she gestures to an empty stool, “just washed in. He fought in the Vietnam war.
“How’d he end up here?” he asks
She gestures to the rolling waves from the west-facing window.