He glides in on a rusty bike, old enough to match the jacket he’s wearing. As he nears the frayed tree, he hops off the bike and drops the cigarette dangling from his lips to the ground, killing it with the sole of his Chucks.
“Why you gotta add to the array of butts?” she spits from behind the bar, tattoo-sleeved arm wiping the counter.
He rolls his eyes and sits on the stool, opens his book and starts to read.
“You gotta order somethin, man. Why we gotta do this every fuckin time?”
“Just marry me already,” he says to the book.