Bobby was sitting at the corner of the bar in the same place as last year when Arlene came in. He didn't look up, but she knew him by the shabby plaid jacket that he wore. The snow must have muffled the sound of her tires in the parking lot and the thick, concrete-block walls blocked the light from her headlights.
"Hey, Bobby," she said, almost quietly.
Bobby raised up and turned his head toward her. The greasy bartender frowned at her with a disgusted look, then turned and continued wiping the beer cooler with a stained, gray rag.
Bobby's expression didn't seem to change, but there was a welcome tone in his voice. "You're early. I didn't expect you for a couple more hours."
"There wasn't hardly anybody in the store so they let a bunch of us go," she told him. "How many you had?" she indicated the beer in front of him.
"Three..."
She gave him a steady look as if she was wondering whether to believe him.
"Really..." he told her, "three. I been cuttin' down since I talked to th' doctor last year."
"You can't drive, though. Where's your truck?"
"It's okay. It's in the company parkin' lot. It won't get towed 'r nothin'. They're used t' it there."
"You wanna go?"
"Yeah," he said, "there ain't nothin' here."
"Well, come on," she said. Her thick accent came through each word, pronouncing "well" as if it had two syllables and saying "on" with a long 'O.'
Arlene stood next to Bobby as he stood up from the stool ready to help him walk if he needed. He didn't move quickly, but didn't appear to have more than a beer buzz and she considered that he might have told the truth about how many he had. He tugged the bent, heavy metal door open and held it, letting her walk outside and then letting it creak shut and slam with a thud.
The air was cold. Wet snow was falling, slow, but thick, all over the parking lot and her dented car.
"You still drivin' that same ol' rust bucket?" Bobby asked when he saw the car sitting alone in the parking lot with flaking paint and a layer of snow already collecting on the windshield.
"I know it's a mess, but it's got a good engine. I can depend on it."
The car door opened with a loud creak and showed a huge, irregular patch of gray primer. She sat heavily in the driver's seat and leaned across to pull the handle on the passenger door from the inside. He waited there without tugging at the door knowing it would only open from the inside. The entire door popped loudly, sagged a little on it's hinges, and he stepped inside, slamming the door solidly as he sat down.
"How's Oma?" he asked her.
"She's still bitchy as ever. She went to Nora's."
"Don't she know you're here?"
She worked her mouth a little as she tried to fit the key in the ignition and considered the answer at the same time.
"I think she does. She acts pissed off, but she didn't say nothin'. She pro'ly figgers I'm here. She knows I came last year."
The car started and the engine missed, belching smoke until it came to full speed. She put the car in gear and backed away from the building, then drove out of the parking lot and onto the empty two-lane road.
"It's too bad she never will talk to me," he said.
