Catcalls and whiskey make their rounds around the room sounding spry clasps as they do with their shit-stained hands. Something deep inside of her didn’t allow for celebration. Entangled underneath the depth of her southern expectations, she was coerced into calling animal control. The elephants in the room knew of surreptitious conversations and coded language. Private investigators drink in the corner of the room. The room is sparsely occupied. Cockroaches mate in the broken sunshine breaking through the window. The bartender knows their story. Several songs play on the jukebox, though some seem to endlessly play on repeat in perpetuity. The gods of foreign conversation make their way along the slow avenue. Broken glass everywhere. An early warning system. The long neck of the law makes her way into the bar. Elephants aren’t opposed to watching reruns of the same scene playing out. This event has been known not to be singular.