If he was laughed at for his tastes in women, he felt obliged to say that they were only temporary or indifferent ones.
The morning after Maggie had departed from home, Pete stood behind the bar.

He was immaculate in white jacket and apron and his hair was plastered over his brow with infinite correctness.

No customers were in the place.

Pete was twisting his napkined fist slowly in a beer glass, softly whistling to himself and occasionally holding the object of his attention between his eyes and a few weak beams of sunlight that had found their way over the thick screens and into the shaded room.
With lingering thoughts of the woman of brilliance and audacity, the bartender raised his head and stared through the varying cracks between the swaying bamboo doors.

Suddenly the whistling pucker faded from his lips.