The Taverna Tag-team

"The Taverna Tag-Team"

He'd pretty much mastered the casual stare around the room whilst
appearing to be deep in thought, technique. The trick with this though
was timing. Not often enough, and you just looked like you were still
hoping that your girlfriend would forgive you and come down to the bar.
Too much, and you were offically the holiday weirdo.

The ultimate secret though? Hands. What you did with your hands could
make or break a lone drinker. Hold on to your glass? Seems the safest
bet at first, but then you soon realise that you look either drunk or
suicidal. Cigarettes? Yes, cigarettes, but then waking up the next
morning with a gurgling lung, brown fingers, and a burnt lip soon
forces you to become a little more inventive. The truth is, that you do
all of these, and more. You just juggle them around. One minute you're
holding your glass, the next you're casually examining how the tan on
your forearm is doing. Take a piece of fruit from the bar, a slow sip
from your glass again, rub your leg, and what do you know? It's time
for another cigarette. It's modular hand activity. You just need to
avoid patterns, that's all.

When the two of them did walk in James was 'between modules'.
Apparently deep in thought, and rubbing his leg, he watched them cross
the space between the front door and the bar. They were both in their
mid-forties with about a three day tan. Red beginning to brown
slightly, but unmistakably British. The guy's nose was clearly broken,
but his face seemed to be broken too. From somewhere James recalled a
Saturday morning from years ago - the round rug in the front room, the
smell of polyester pyjamas warmed by the electric fire, and the intense
noise and colour from the old TV?Tom running face-first into an anvil
and ending up with a flat face, or was that Roadrunner? Anyway, this
guy was huge, and covered in those DIY, 'me-mate-did-it-during-maths',
tatoos. As James looked back up, he realised the guy was looking
straight at him. Frozen, until the guy's eyes moved on to some other
subject, two thoughts arrived at James's brain:

I know that look?

He's giving the same look to every bloke in here. Jesus!

By now, the two of them had reached the bar. The man was partly
obscured around the curve of the bar but his female friend was fully
visible about 3 seats down from where James was sitting. Painted-on
face, thumbs tucked into the pockets of her far too small hotpants, and
a menthol cigarette hanging off her bottom lip. Well, ,fuck me? if this
isn't the entertainment for the night, thought James. He took the last
swig of beer from his glass, smiled to himself, and looked back over at
them again. The guy was busy attempting to order drinks from the
barmaid, who was clearly having some difficulty understanding him.
James guessed it wasn't because she was Greek. The Woman however, was
now staring right at him.

The only thing James could think to do was smile, and as he did so his
brain screamed

Don't smile! Don't fucking smile, whatever you do ?".