Chuck cocks his head when the man shouts. What’s he on about? With his missus sittin’ so Chardonay-quiet? Don’t vocal bomb here. Too tight of a space. He turns back to his bench of picnic-table wood, colored blue for the hell of it, and across the walls clothespins and postcards, post-war memories in K-mart frames, popcorn in mason jars too. All trend-like and stuff but not so distractin’ to pull your attention from humanity: lager friends or lovers or a single with perfume called The Pain of Being Alone. Or this loud chunk of dude here. This decibel lover and his missus. Chuck’s had enough. The lights are low and the beer cold but his drums and those lil’ mid-ear bones in there…Anvil? Stirrup? They’re hammerin’.