"Every night and every morn,
Some to misery are born.
Every morn and every night,
Some are born to sweet delight
Some are born to sweet delight
Some are born to endless night"
- William Blake

Flakes of snow fall quietly and die on contact with the hard, coal-colored asphalt. The smoke ofmy cigarette tries to rise softly to heaven, but can never make it. The cold, hard steel ofmy pistol pinches the bare skin at my waist.

I walk into the bar. There's a "no smoking" sign on the door but that's only there to comfort the non-smokers. I walk into an impenetrablehaze. A cocktail of a thousand different scents reaches my nostrils – smell of cigarettes, smell of sweat, smell of drinks. They don't serve Martinis here. Not that kind of a bar. I know the owner – her name is Gretta. She's an old woman, vindictive, violent, dumb, and half-deaf. But she's nice to me. She's nice to the people who are nice to her. She sees me coming in and pours me a shot of the cheapest vodka – the kind that often reminds me more of rubbing alcohol. She knows I prefer whiskey, but I'll have to pay for that, and this shot is free. I swallow it in a single gulp, and ignore the fact that the vodka was actually virtually boiling. On any other day, or at any other time,Gretta wouldtalk to me, but today she seems really busy. A couple of guys have already started a fight. I look at them – just two middle-aged snobs who are desperately trying to prove their manliness. I guess they'd rather have Gretta poke holes in them with her vintage shotgun than blend in with the crowd and act like the human beings they're supposed to be.

I order the whisket. I take itand move away to the back of the bar. I sit down, alone, in the half-darkness. I close my eyes and try to clear my brain of thoughts, emotions, and memories. I realize that this run-down bar is the only place where I can do that – where I can just keep my anonymity, where I can convince myself that there's absolutely no one around me, where I can drink and smoke in peace, and, more importantly, where my nerves become resistant to the icy touch of my pistol.

I look at the pool table. The sound of the balls has an intoxicating effect on me – such a dumb game, but at least for a few dozen minutes, you can forget about everything else and focus on a senseless objective. Probably the simplest of all games – get the damn ball in the hole. Sure, some people count and stuff, but I don't. I just get the damn ball in the hole.

I see Vicious gesturing at me. Strange, I hadn't realized he was there. When you empty your brain of all the junk, people's faces all look alike. Anyway, I stand up and walk up to the pool table. Without saying anything, I grab a broken stick and take off my coat. I don't want him to start talking. If he starts talking, it's not gonna be about gardening or poetry. Right now, Vicious talking is equivalent with hell. I've been enjoying my time tonight, dammit. He better not ruin it.

He doesn't say anything. He probably has the same exact feeling. He's probably afraid I'll start talking. When you've been close friends for years, when you've killed and almost died together, there isn't much to be said. You know everything about each other. Silence is not awkward anymore, it's treasured.

But then he says something:

"Julia will be here soon."

"What?"

"Julia… She'll be here soon. You'll finally see her."

I look up at him. His eyes are narrow and cold, like a snake's. His face is as pale as the snow outside. His voice is secretive, distant. As for Julia… Who the fuck cares about her? Just another whore, probably, who's kissing Vicious' ass for a few mob favors.

"OK. But why bring her here? Aren't there better bars in town than this shithole?"

I ask the question automatically, but ironically, I don't think there are better bars in town than Gretta's shithole. All bars are shitholes. Clean, rich, sophisticated shit isn't much different from dirty, simple, can't-make-ends-meet shit.

Then I hear the door open – or, more precisely, I hear the wind penetrating the bar. I look up and I see Vicious walking toward her – a blond, tall girl, early-to-mid twenties.

I don't think this one's a whore.