Tuesdays and Fridays

On Tuesdays and Friday evenings Miles visited the small bar across town. It was a family owned business and Miles liked supporting the small restaurant. The tall ceilings, barrels of distilling barley beer, diamond shaped window panes, and rough wooden tables reminded him of his home in Great Britain. The pretty curved land lady, Ms. Hopper, served him his favorite dish, the green onion soup, scald potatoes, thick square soda bread, and a pint of Irish Stout, a strong beer that was distinctly loved by all respectable Englishman. Although not in any hurry to find himself a bonny lass to join him in his small red leather booth, Miles always made a point to take a shower, comb his remaining hair, and pull out one of his many pressed collared shirts. Perhaps it was his own attempts at impressing others or the military neatness that was imprinted upon his very genes, but Miles always found himself looking sharp whenever he crossed town.
Miles locked the front of the Food Mart and walked down the snowy sidewalk. As he passed the fortune teller's grubby shop that sat adjacent to his own Food Mart, Miles threw a dirty look through the front window at the puffy arm chairs and the many colored beads and bangles hanging from the ceiling. The shop's chipped red-brick chimney blocked his view of the morning sunrise from his kitchen window. The front door opened and an old man staggered out, looking pale and weak kneed, as though he had just been told that he had less than forty-eight hours to live. A cloud of incense cascaded out of the opened wooden door, smacking his senses and making his eyes dilate and his wrinkled nose flare in disgust. He hated incense. It made him sick to his stomach and think of dry, barren, Middle Eastern deserts.
Miles rounded the street corner and turned onto the icy lane that lead to the Pub. As he grew closer, he squinted through the darkness and saw that its lights were off and the front door was bolted shut.
"Damn," he muttered, slapping his leg in frustration and turning to return his small kitchen. Walking past the many shops and boutiques his gnarled hands buried in his woolen coat pockets, Miles peered through the shop windows at the items of display. Not at all interested in the sale of vacuum cleaners he instead watched his own reflection in the glossy windows flickering past.
Miles knew he was aging, but the sight of the slightly hunched, gray haired, solitary man trudging through the snow was no comfort to his conscious. This was the first time Miles had seen his entire profile in four months. With just a small bathroom mirror in his apartment, Miles had forgotten just how bad his limp had become, and how old he looked. He walked alone back to the Food Mart his hands in his pockets.