Peering through one smoked glass window after another started to take its toll. At three o’clock in the morning every location started to look alike. Identical interiors, matching people or so it seemed.
No not this one. Maybe the next? Sylvia all of eight, could only hope.
Sylvia could have given up her search. But it was her duty, her desire really, to keep looking. At what she hoped would be the last window, she sighed. Not a sigh of relief, more, a sigh of recognition. There, sitting in the Dew Drop Inn on the center barstool, laughing the laugh of someone without a care in the world, surrounded by adoring inebriated men sat her mother.
“Mom, time to go.”