Touchstone The old man walked in, but no-one acknowledged him. He stepped up to the bar and rasped "Milk" before taking off his hat, scanning the sparsely populated room and sitting heavily on a stool with a cough. The barmaid placed the glass in front of him. He picked up the glass and took a mouthful of the milk, which in the afternoon's heat was starting to sour, and replaced it on the bar. It was as he withdrew his hand he first noticed the blood on the side of his glass. There was a time when the blood would have been someone else's, but he'd given that up years ago and tried to settle down with a wife. He settled more easily than he'd expected, but fate hadn't liked that. He recalled the dying breaths of her killer, before setting those thoughts aside. He coughed again, more chesty this time, and looked at his hands. More blood. "Symbolic", he chuckled to himself, humourlessly. The barmaid looked up in time to see him walking away, taking his final steps as he stumbled into the door, crashing through onto the street outside.