The little bar was lit by sunlight that streamed in through stained-glass windows, casting patterns of coloured light across the round tables that were spaced out on a black hardwood floor. Odd bits of paraphernalia were hung up on the walls: transit signs, news articles, pictures of famous athletes over a century old.
Jena Morane took a stool.
A tall woman in gray pants and a red t-shirt with a white diamond across the chest, she had the face of an eighteen-year-old girl and the hair of a twelve-year-old boy. “Lovely afternoon, Leras,” she said, accepting the bottle of beer that the bartender set down on the counter. “Wouldn"t you say?”
With a quick twist of the wrist, Jena popped the cap and watched thin mist rise from the skinny blue bottle. Chilled to perfection, as always. There we
