I want a bar of chocolate.

No, perhaps a beer.

I can almost feel the moist "squoosh" of a shockingly rare bite of prime rib, warm, juicy, dead, goodness.

Scotch and a cigarette.

A warm dark hall filled with muted conversations, laughter, televised buzz.

Old Men and Women huddled over their drinks chuckling as the ice melts.

The day draws long and grows cold, much like them.

Grey hairs flop over deep furrows etched into unhurried brows.

The skin on the backs of their hands is no longer taut, moist, dynamic.

The end of another day is observed in rituals hallowed by long repetition.

A cold beer, a warm burger, a warm smile, a cold glance, a misunderstood moment.

A burp, a fart, a roll of the eyes.

The stool is pushed back, a well-perused newspaper crinkles in the hand of yet another squinting pair of eyes.

The inevitable "early bird" who got the jump on the lot, wants to converse with you about nothing at all.

And damned if you don't lend him your ear.

Why not? We're all shiny fish in the same bloody pool.

And as for excitement. What can match the daily double on Jeopardy?

They eagerly whisper the answers, which are nearly always correct, under their breath, and feel, as a result, quite validated in their intellectual exertions.

Another drink, if you please, my good man.

Call me your good man one more time and you'll find your ass on the other side of that door.

Nothing like the sights and sounds of home to warm a man's heart as the sun packs it's heat and heads home for the evening.