He's been here before. He doesn't realize or recognize from where, how, or even why. It is a ominous meditation Wilson has found himself in too close for comfort. 

A double gin and tonic rests peacefully on the just-now cleaned counter of the hardwood bar where a chubby Mexican man just wiped five minutes earlier as he entered - watermarks still fresh as Wilson is careful not to rest his naked hands there. There's tranquility knowing this separation of self-discipline in moments of tentative and short-lived relaxation. The gin is cool but the air is freezing as it sits below a dim light, beckoning him to enjoy it as fresh ice floats carelessly above its surface, all too cold to melt just yet. The tasteful concoction in this mustered burrow where injured souls take leave, clinging to the muse of an unventured and unsolved light of their own lives in this pitstop from day-to-day folly that carried them to some distant end without context of the shadows looming in the distance. 

Maybe a more pompous man could consider himself brave enough to delve there, Wilson did not consider himself quite [i]there yet[/i]. Whether he is supposed have a drink knowing his restless mind or without one and destitute amidst the darkness that irks him but it's there now. There was no amount of absurdity that wouldn't bewilder the mind of acutely clever or intellectual men in existential angst and disconcert. Not that it would matter anyway, but the situation-at-hand was definitely bothering him and had lingered only closer since moving here to hick-Kansas, Havenwood just a year ago from his short-lived career as a police officer in Inglewood, California. More notably now as one of the only black officers in his department. The thoughts of turmoil are something he simply cannot ignore but cannot ascertain the origin of and wonders if anyone else could sense it too. It is external and contrived, whether coming from, through, around him, or simply coincidental - it doesn't matter. It [i]shouldn't[/i] matter. And whatever it was that tails him, it is without siren. It's neither poetic nor profound. It is something ancient and persistent, a knowing that slips through the cracks of a dam holding water. 

[i]Four drinks minimum[/i], he reminds himself. The idea of boundaries comforts him as they always did. He's in control at the moment of the one thing that matters most: himself. That's what's [i]supposed[/i] to matter. It'll be two now and maybe a couple of beers while sitting here at this bar gazing mindlessly at the bulky television that hangs steadily from the ceiling, whatever is playing on there. It is the only thing he knows isn't completely sticky. Or so he thinks. He sits gracefully at the bar and gently sips from the frigid glass, absorbing the environment around him, and casting any further doubts of his mental posture aside. It is the time of evening where annoyance from other people staggering in to ruin his baseline and any hinderance of further short-lived peace he has from anyone who might take notice of his darker-complexion this part of the country.

For now, it is occupied by brain-rotten folk whose minds are tarnished away from years of heavy drinking. He notices a young man whose hands were overtly shaking - too young to be put in such a predicament he witnesses his peripheral vision just a few steps away from the entrance/exit of this place. [i]Maybe he's going through these motions, too?[/i] He thinks, catching himself going full-circle again. He briefly sighs and shoves such thoughts of turmoil into the empty attic of temporary resolution, a necessary remission he's reluctantly comfortable with having for now. 

He sits at the bar and has a conversation with the affable bartender, carefully weaving away from threads of would-be details of a body found earlier today and supposedly investigated thoroughly by detectives before it's way to a morgue and then buried. Where it should remain. He heads out the door again which swings abruptly open. It is a greeting from the deathly wind that prowls the outside prairies where the consolation of a small hill could capture an eye for hope in this flatland. The sun has taken leave, the rays of dying lights slowly faded, their strength dilapidated and the night crawled in. 

He twists the ignition of his Honda accord car engine as it hums to life and figures instead of going home, he'd take a short detour around town without thought of what he will drive to, from, or towards...