I thought she'd begin slowly, gently. I thought she'd understand. I thought she'd do anything but what she did next. "What the fuck are you doing here..." she barked, her voice raspy and thick."I..." I began, not knowing how to proceed. "I'm ... sorry." You're fucking sorry?!" She spat. "You fucking followed me out here, didn't you? I thought I would have a little time to my fucking self, but no, your needy ass just follows me! Well, guess what? I don't fucking care this time. Get away from me. I. To our amazement some of the same regulars were in and in particular Fred a 79 year old widower who we used to stand and talk to on many an evening.When we made our long time greetings, Fred always used to sit on a bar stool at the end of the bar that backed into a small room that housed the fruit machine it had no light as it was really just a box room, so no one really ever passed to go in their and play on the machine, so you could stand and lean against the wall facing Fred at the bar which. More

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