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The Death Of A Rush Hour Horde

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The air was heavy with the smell of beer, fumes of cigarettes, smoke stacks from the large industrial work buildings, and a foul stench reaping from the human labor of long hours, and hard days. The infamous rush hour horde scurried from cab to bus to train station all seeking an outlet of relief after a long day, whether it be at a bar or where they respectively reside. Jensen, a weary man with enough corrugation throughout his face resulting from the tireless stress making him look 20 years older than he truly was, was sitting on a beaten down wooden bar stool with one of those typical red cushions, sleeves rolled up, tie distorted, wiping the grease of his face, and attempting to signal the bartender, of whom always was scowling.
‘Hey there, stranger,’ the woman just out of his peripheral view had said.
At first he didn’t even acknowledge it; just another voice among the many in the distance. He was just kicking his stool in with his big brown work boots and was on the way to his friends at a nearby table, when he suddenly heard that same woman’s voice again:
“Hi stranger”
But this time, she had come so close to his ear that he could feel her warm breath upon him. Abruptly stopping in his tracks towards the table, he was now intrigued by this voice, thinking:
“Why was this woman speaking to me?” “Where did I know her from?”
Jensen turned. He wouldn’t have recognized the voice or the face if any further. She looked aged, huge bags under her eyes and almost too skinny.

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