Henna Rosa sat at the counter of the bar, staring at the glass of water in her hands. She wasn't much a drinker, and she wasn't entirely sure why she'd decided to go out to a bar that evening. It had been on an impulse, instead of going home, she'd turn in the exact opposite direction to the Smith and Templeton's Bar.

She sighed, loudly, running a hand through her long, black ringlet curls, starting to regret coming. Henna didn't have spare money, she had just enough. Going out had not been a wise choice, yet she'd been aware of this when she'd acted so blindly.

(hope this is okay- didn't know where else to have the character)

Peter had just gotten home from his typical nine to five shift at the textile plant. He forgot to wipe his black loafers off on the mat, and now there was a trail of gray slush, muddy silhouettes, lining the kitchen floor.

His briefcase thudded to the floor. His coat tossed over the kitchen chair. His keys danced across the granite counter, sliding into the black plastic of the answering machine.

'Peter. I'm not going to be home tonight. The flight's been cancelled due to bad weather, I'll be staying at Mum's again. Talk to you soon. Love you.' Susan's voice called through the machine's speakers.

She had been staying in Calgary at her mother's house for two weeks now; two very short weeks, and now it had been extended by a day. The visit had to been to talk about putting Susan's mother, Gladys, in an extended care facility, but in reality it was an over-due, absolutely necessary, two-week long mutual separation period.

And with another night without a wife, Peter decided to take it to his advantage. He picked up the cordless phone from its resting place on the kitchen table, beside an old vacation photo of his wife in Bermuda; khaki shorts, red t-shirt, red-hair in a ponytail, all teeth.

"Jim? It's Peter. Want to go the bar or something tonight?"

"No," Henna refused, shaking her head, slightly annoyed. A drunken fat man with a bald stop on top of his head, probably going through his "mid-life-crisis" or whatever, had asked her to spend the night with him. Henna often had this problem with men, they found her attractive, and Henna could see where they were coming from, she guessed. She wasn't arrogant, not by a long shot, but she could see that she was, in fact beautiful. Her long black curly hair matched her mysterious, black eyes. Her skin was slightly tanned, like mocha, suggesting hispanic heritage, though she couldn't be sure as the Rosa's had adopted her.

She wore clothes that complimented her hour glass figure. Tonight she sported a tight, navy blue skirt that came down just above her knees, a white, frilly-ish blouse and a matching navy blue over coat the was buttoned tightly around her torso. With one leg crossed over the other, her navy stilleto bobbing slightly, she'd wave the man away.

It wasn't that Henna disliked men, but she had yet to find a man that sparked her interest. They seemed so flat to her. Nothing deeper than their slightly-handsome (if that) skins. They were all the same. She wasn't sure what it was that she was looking for in a man, but there was something just out of her reach.

Peter arrived outside Jim's house at 9:35, according to the LCD clock in his Prius, he sat waiting in his black trousers and blue casual dress shirt. He checked his blonde hair in the rearview mirror, and noticed a five o'clock shadow rolling in around the edges of his jaw.

The clock read 9:40. Jim shut off the car to save gas, but kept the keys in to finish Tracy Chapman's 'Talking 'Bout A Revolution'. He sat there, against his car's leathers seats, in the red brick driveway. A driveway, which lead to a two-car garage, attached to a large, prominent, white house. Windows littered the sides of the house, and not a single light on.

'What is taking him so long?" Thought Peter.

9:50, Peter opens the door to his Prius, walks across the brick pavement, across the snowy lawn, making sure not to step on any of the burlap wrapped marigolds and shrubs, to the entranceway. He rings the doorbell, knocks the knocker, raps with his hand, calls Jim's name; nothing.

'Well he must already bed there.'

Peter crawled back in his nice, shiny silver car, backed out onto the wet pavement and drove.

Henna glanced at the clock overhead. It was nearly 10:00. She had to be at the office tomorrow morning at 7:30, yet she couldn't pull herself from the bar. The impulse that had brought her, kept her firmly in her seat. Whatever had drawn her here was coming. She could feel it draw closer with each of her heart beats.

For the most part, the bar was empty. There were a few patrons on the other side of the room, their conversations a slight murmer instead of the roar it had been two hours early. She hoped that, before her "impulse" arrived, that the last of the customers in the room would leave.