Miguel Caballero Rojo

The old bar was half empty, and there was an unpleasant, cloying smell of cheap alcohol, cologne, and sweat-soaked cloth in the air. Miguel could hear the occasional hoarse voices of other customers talking to each other and the clink of glass beer mugs. All this mixed into a bad symphony, which was complemented by female laughter from the far corner of the establishment, where some drunk, indeterminate-looking men were having some kind of flirtatious conversation with an equally drunk middle-aged woman in a short red dress. An unpleasant picture. Miguel Caballero Rojo, hunched over the bar, stared at the worn wooden surface in silence, completely ignoring what was happening around him, as if he were part of another world, and the only movements he periodically made were sips of cool wine from a glass. The bright taste of the drink brought him back to reality for a moment, after which the Spaniard again plunged into his thoughts, in particular, about his sister and revenge.