Jeff’s Lunch

Jeff walked into the pub. They called them pubs here, that was right. At least he thought so. Wasn’t that a British thing? He could barely pronounce Lithuania. It was cold, he knew that much. The sign battered against the door on its rusty chain in the wind. The “Arm and a Leg”.

The place was tasteful. Expensive, dark wood, square tables, soft lighting. A short, powerfully built young woman was collecting up half-empty glass steins, humming a song Jeff couldn’t place. In the corner, by a window, that weird Russian guy was muttering to himself, rolling a cigarette in trembling fingers. A cold plate of something red congealed on the table next to him. Jeff felt his stomach clench. The walk up here had worked up his appetite. Past the Russian’s head, snow draped the distant mountainside in a blanket of white.

He saw that guy in all the bars – pubs around here. He freaked Jeff out a bit. But then, they had different tastes. And neither were the other’s type.

Jeff walked up to the bar, where a tall, athletic man was polishing glasses, his framed degrees on the wall behind, above the immaculately preserved head of the barman’s latest hunt. What the hell was a psyche doctor doing running a bar anyway? But he smelt good. Classy. Again, not Jeff’s type. But he could appreciate it. Those half-moon eyes under that premature shock of grey hair glinted with amusement as he saw Jeff. But he was always amused.

“The usual, Mr Dahmer?” said Dr Lecter. On the bar was a dark glass of rum and coke, and a plate full of warm, squishy grey matter. Jeff smiled.