It is an hour until bar close when he walks in. 70s. Seemingly gaunt. Yet wiry. Long ponytail of grey hair spills out of his mad hatter style hat, it feels steampunk but more authentic, he’s not posing or cosplaying, he just is.
He walks to the bar and orders a whiskey sour, clearly comfortable with rail whiskey. Two pouches adorn his belt. One full of quarters for the pool table the other vague but could be anything from pocket knife to leatherman.
His rock band tshirt has a tie dye feel without the tie dye. He wears a pendant around his neck. He has a special glove on his left hand for pool.
Slim wire rimmed glasses hide under the brim of his hat. He plays pool, or perhaps he calls it billiards with an efficiency and purpose. He plays 8 ball against himself.
He is not proficient or smooth. After every shot he returns to chalk the cue again. Often with a sigh and resignation.
He is objectively not good at pool. He misses most of his shots. He takes less time lining up a shot than he does adding chalk to the cue.
He plays with a speed of frustration. Like there is an invisible clock that only he can see. He defers to the other players at the tables around him, he’s a gentleman. Even if he is annoyed with his on performance against himself.
He silently verbally castrates the balls or his play. It’s hard to tell.
And once all the balls have been deposited into pockets. He reaches into the quarter filled pouch and begins again.
He is a universe unto himself. A battle between parts of himself. It’s like if the subconscious mind became person and decided pool, billiards was the perfect personification of an internal argument.
He reaches again into the pouch and begins again.
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