The PM staff is obviously settling in for a long shift. They arrive one by one and all need to pass by me, seeing as I've positioned myself in the service corridor.
I hear a coworker introduce his father to the other employees. It's extra interesting to me to hear the different accents in this region. It reminds me that everyone has a story. Everyone got here somehow. But how?
First I notice the couple across the bar. They order one beer each and pull out their phones. She's a bit old for pig tails yet wears them anyway. He looks tired, in that children-of-the-revolution kind of way. His earring and long gotee suggesting a 60's baby.
Head in hand, she waits for him to finish his drink. They haven't said many words to each other. I start thinking about their relation to each other.
They both are the uncategorizable kind, meaning they don't obviously belong to any one stereotype. I imagine she works at an alternative bar, one where mostly 'townies' venture. He probably runs a rock and roll record store, hiring punk girls who wear skinny jeans too tight to take off. He probably smokes weed. They probably like spending time with friends at a local bar, playing lost rock albums and debating world politics none of them know much about. They probably have a dog together, something straggly and small that wears a black bandana like it's a person. How hip.
With no one else within sight or eavesdropping, I finish my beer, swigging half of it down. I venture out back into the heat and head towards to tower. The homing beacon.