This bar is too small, its drinks are too pricey, its band is too quiet, and its dull lights couldn't shine for five minutes straight without flickering. Flies run ballet shows around the ashtrays. A guy in the corner's talking to himself. The jukebox's coated in grime and dust. But it's dry. The low ceiling was sturdy enough to withstand the hiss of rain. It's private and ugly -- nobody who knows her would think to look here. And the stool beneath her ass was upholstered with real leather, ...