Saturday, 5 September 2015

Red Lights

      They met there at the same time every evening in the summer, when the children were away at camp, always sitting on the same stools, and Louis, the barman, would greet them with a wink and start mixing their drinks without waiting for the order. They felt no need to start talking at once. One would offer the other a cigarette. Sometimes Nancy would push the dish of peanuts towards him, or he would pass her the olives, while they gazed absently at the pallid rectangle of the televsion receiver set high in the right-hand corner of the bar. Images flickered across it. A voice poured out a commentary on a baseball game, or a woman sang. It was quite unimportant.

Feux Rouges
Georges Simenon

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