The Sarsaparilla Saloon
Memories of Days Gone By
The desert stretched endlessly under the midday sun, its golden sands shimmering like a mirage. A lone saloon, battered by years of sandstorms and neglect, stood defiant in the middle of nowhere. Its faded sign read “The Sarsaparilla Saloon.” Inside, two old cowboys nursed their sarsaparillas, their weathered faces lined with stories no one had heard for years.
Jedediah “Jed” Wilkes leaned back in his creaky chair, his boots crossed on the splintered table. He wore a battered Stetson hat that seemed older than the saloon itself. Across from him sat Clayton “Clay” McGraw, a wiry man with a gray handlebar mustache that twitched whenever he spoke. Clay absentmindedly ran his thumb over the rim of his glass, his eyes lost in the amber liquid.
The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the sunlight streaming through the saloon’s slatted windows. Dust motes danced in the beams, adding to the air of timelessness.
“Reckon it’s been twenty years since we was here last,” Jed drawled, breaking the silence. His voice was gravelly, like rocks scraping against each other.
Clay nodded, his mustache twitching. “Twenty-two, to be exact. Ain’t changed much, ‘cept maybe we’re a mite slower gettin’ through the door.”
