The night street noises kept summoning Brent's attention away from the small glowing world that was his laptop. He snapped the lid shut, and again took his spot in front of the open window. A steady line of yellow taxis inched their way down the street, while passerby's criss-crossed between them, packages in hand. The neon grew brighter, as the sky darkened in contrast.
Across the street, it appeared the White Horse Tavern was in full swing. A constant string of people entered and exited. He watched as Slaphead Fatpants stumbled from the doorway, and tried to enter an occupied taxi waiting at the light. He could barely make out the exchange of un-pleasantries between driver, occupant and Slaphead. It was the short honk of the taxi behind them, that broke up the unfolding 'play.'
Brent decided that a journey to the tavern was what his weary soul craved. Too many bad memories swilling around his head. What he needed was the 'hair of the dog' that bit Dylan Thomas and eventually killed him.
Grabbing his keys and tweed jacket, Brent strode to the door, flipped the light switch off, and proceeded to descend the narrow dark stairwell to the street below.
The air felt crisper than it had from the window. He took the opportunity to light up a smoke, as he made his way between the stalled traffic to the infamous doorway. Sending the mostly unsmoked cigarette back into the street, he flung the door open and was hit with the lovely stench of stale beer and sweat. It felt like home.