Sour Spouts

I remember the old man, sitting alone, drinking scotch and milk. I remember thinking, it was a strange combination and wondered what it tasted like. I wondered why he drank it. But more than that, I wondered what he was thinking when he looked at me like that. When he licked his lips like that. The way he called me darlin'. The way he smiled. It made me think. His eyes, the colour of mustard and peas. His skin like a wrinkly plucked chicken, greasy and uneven, except for that big, bloated belly, which waddled from side to side. Sometimes he would watch TV, but mostly he would watch me. Sliding the doors open and shut. Bending down. Standing up. Washing glasses. Pouring cheap, weak beer, from old sour spouts. Hours would pass under the drone of the television and clinking glass. Scrapping off the plates while he sipped his scotch and milk, and watched me. He would talk so quiet, that I would have to lean in close, just to hear him. Just inches between us. I wondered what he thought of then. Most of the men in that small town would look at you, but he was the only one that made me feel that way. Sometimes it's hard to keep your dignity and your paycheque.