Walking down the street, just a block or so from the River walk, a window captured my eye. A single chandelier hung in the big plate glass windows on either side of an antique, wooden, glass filled door. The room beyond was devoid of customers, only three employees dressed in black pants and white button down shirts. The floor was still the tiny octagon shaped tiles in a multitude of colors that someone had brought back to a high shine from years and years of wear. Years of cowboy boots and spiked heals scraping across the floor, of a heavy push broom and an old wringer mop picking up the Texas dirt. The old wooden counter had been turned into a bar, the stain reapplied and varnished to a high gloss to shine under the chandeliers and shaded lamps. Above the lights, the old tin ceiling tiles had been saved, the ones that were salvageable and the ones that were not, replaced with new in a random pattern. Tables and chairs now dotted the floor where I imagined clothing racks or shelves with boots or shoes once stood.
I let my imagination take me wandering as we walked on down the street. Sitting at the shiny bar, dressed in a sexy black dress with patent leather heels on. My diamonds sparkling in the dim light of the chandeliers. Live music filling the air as I watch a small group of people dancing on the tile floor. Drinks being served by the young men in black pants and white button down shirts.