She watches him pencil a quick something and put it away unvetted. Another twenty minutes before rush hour seethes the first wave through the bar. Those who’ve been here since 3:30 (five souls, last count) relish the emptiness of the large room. The bar’s solitude would be as beautiful with none to witness the rose-colored light rising up the smallish window panes, a light which in no way illuminates the smoke-dim interior. She wonders what it is he just scribbled and put away. She suspects he would tell her if she closed the distance of three barstools. Others have told her more for even less. Their eyes are meeting and they smile and hold for just too long to classify as ‘fleeting’ before looking away again. The third or fourth such look between them in the past week. Third, or fourth? He’s trying to remember, then gives up and it comes to him. Twice on Tuesday night and the underwater bells bumped ‘almost’ and then. Different someones said something to each of them and the moment was lost. One more glass of wine and if the next song on the jukebox is by a UK band then she’ll speak to him on the way to the Ladies’.