There are head counters, and being counted

He walked up to the bar and asked for a beer.

Cautiously taking a first sip, already he felt more at ease, already just another guy in here, after the core working hours of a week, enjoying a beer. Could he even look like that anymore? Was his skin really that far away from his mind?

No, not really, but no one was really looking.  He wryly remembered something dimly about how hard it is to look at people – Or just a person.

Leaning gently on the bar, the damp of the bar towel was cool on his skin -  another sign of his being there – but essentially his was a faceless head that would only be counted by someone already in the process of counting.

He felt the silk of the tie in pocket and the cuffs of his shirt drifting over his knuckles. Beginning to gather the fabric around his elbows, manipulating the relative lengths of his jacket and shirt sleeves, he was finally aware that no one ever taught him to wear a suit and pulled out the phone.

//ends