"Make me an angel
That flies from Montgomery.
Make me a poster
Of an old rodeo.
Just give me one thing
That I can hold on to.
To believe in this livin'
Is just a hard way to go."
The smoke hung in the room like early morning fog over a still pond. The hum of conversation wove itself through the clink of glasses, the thwack of the pool balls, and the melancholy lilt of Bonnie Raitt's lamenting angel.
Yellowed walls covered with beer signs, cracked red vinyl stools, and the subtle scent that seems linger around people who never really had any dreams to lose. Lennie didn't care, as long as there was a pool table, green felt worn in spots, once bright colored balls now dulled with age and use.
A lot like him, Lennie thought, as he lined up the cue ball and sent it on its violent, ill-fated collision with destiny. A lot like him.