A fair amount of time had passed since Clay last retreated groggily and grumpily to his room with a bottle of strong whisky.
The upbeat rhythm of his light footsteps, clear eyes and faintly smirking lips hinted to a different man returning to the bar. 
He wore his usual jacket, open over his glistening wet tattooed chest. His hair and beard still held moisture and so too, strangely, did his soaked denim jeans. 
Seemingly oblivious and unphased by his damp stature, Clay carried on behind the bar leaving wet footprints behind him in his wake. Rummaging through the draws he found and striked up a cigaret.
Puffing away he got to work wiping down the tables and returning dirty cutlery to the sink. Almost, nearly humming as he waited for customers.