Yesterday evening, after encountering Madame Sanglier and finishing my shopping, I stopped by my favorite local dive, Le Pantalon, to have a beer. Being in a thoughtful mood, enjoying the local fauna, and having but two cigarettes in my pack, I figured I would dedicate each to a demi. As I began on my second, I noticed a stout man trucking past the bar window. He moved with purpose and assuredness, as towards a guaranteed end. When he entered La Pantalon I saw he was a butcher of the old school. Small black eyes smiled behind small wireframe glasses, curly dark hair balded at the crown, one lapel of his tunic waved carelessly, a pennant above a blood-stained smock. Without breaking step he reached the bar, extended a ham fist, and took hold of a demi of Stella. I had not even seen the Stella poured, but it was obviously waiting for him, perfectly timed and still fresh with head. The butcher put it to his mouth, which hid beneath an handsome, bristling grey handlebar, and tilted it up. I smiled at the scene, and turned one moment to ash my smoke. When I turned back, the demi – inverted – surrendered its last drop to the butcher, who exhaled loudly and smacked his lips as he returned the glas, in an arc, from its overhead position to the bar. “Merci!” he barked, then bolted out the door – the tarif presumably on tab – and marched back up the street, his purpose softened, to close shop.