A lobster entered through the side door. He paused for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Aside from the furniture, the place was mostly empty. He made his way past the tables, finding support along the backs of empty chairs, and took his regular stool at the counter.
A bar clam shuffled over, turning a towel in a glass. “You’re late,” he said.
“I missed happy hour, did I?” The clam grinned as he poured a drink. When he set it down in front of the lobster, he said, “It’s good to see you, Homer.”
Homer noted his friend’s swollen foot, the chips along his shell. “We keep coming back, don’t we, Lew?”
“You keep coming back,” Lewis corrected. “And someone’s got to pour your Scotch.”
Homer’s bent antennae still rose and bobbed when he chuckled.
Lewis shuffled off to serve a crust of barnacles, and Homer slumped over his glass. He sat like that for several minutes, braced against the counter with his claw and first legs. He gazed past his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Beyond his own battered rostrum, there were few signs of life. A clutch of mussels conferred quietly in one of the booths. A blue crab sipped gin with stoic concentration. There were no fish.
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