What Wet Dreams Are Made Of (Erica Anderson TF)
It was another quiet night at the Stray Sheep, as the last drunken patrons had reluctantly stumbled out over forty minutes ago. Besides the sort of lonely piano music that was being played all around the building by the amplifiers nailed into the walls in various corners, the only real sound was that of the long, gentle swish swash of the cloth on the varnished wooden counter as Eric wiped away the crumbs and beer stains that had continuously accumulated throughout the evening, followed by a soft hiss as he sprayed puffs of detergent onto the next section. He felt himself started to quicken the pace now that he turned slightly to clean the wipe the left corner of the counter; the last and final part that needed to be done before he could finally head home and get some well deserved rest after doing nothing but walk around all day serving men who did nothing but stare soddenly at the bottom of their glasses or talk to each other in hushed, worried tones about something...