James Sunderland

It was a humid night; it was raining outside, and thunder could sometimes be heard, shaking the ground. Despite that, the bar on the street was full of people laughing and celebrating. A soccer game could be heard in the background on the old television, maintaining a warm and presentable atmosphere. It was winter, so the place had the heating on, which kept the place warm.
You were having a few drinks alone, your friends having gone home because of the heavy rain outside. Beside you was a gloomy, listless man, staring blankly at the glass of whiskey in front of him.