Finnegan
"Look what the cat dragged in," Henry beaned at me when I walked into the bar, blue eyes scanning my face curiously. He had a salt and pepper beard that he had grown to four inches and was really proud of it considering he kept taking pictures and spamming our group page.
"He'll have whiskey neat," he told the bartender as I plopped on the bar stool next to him.
I sat down beside him and said nothing for a moment. The bar was quiet for a Tuesday evening, a low golden glow filling the room. There was some classical music being played in the background and the smell of whiskey was light in the air.
Henry and I had been coming here for fifteen years. He poured me a glass of whiskey and had barely slid it halfway before I snatched it up and downed the hot, brown, liquid.
"Respectfully man, you look like shit," Henry chuckled.
"My mother found fourteen things wrong with the launch program."
