We waltzed slowly around the room, between the rows of booths, past the pool table and the chairs, never hitting anything. I guess the loser had spent so much time in that bar that he knew where everything was. He had the gift of all the best dancers: he led you so that you felt as though there was no leading or following involved … The scar tissue above his empty white eyes was furrowed with concentration, and he smelled of sweat and gin.
“Are you beautiful?” the loser whispered toward the end of the song.
I lied a little. “Yes,” I said. “Very.”
The loser smiled to himself and closed his sightless eyes.Fulton County Blues, by Ruth Birmingham, p. 52