. Bonnie’s new pair of black heels were clicking down the sidewalk, stomping over the red, uniform bricks that were slowly turning gray and crooked as she walked. Old, steel train tracks were nestled like veins into the gray, cracking bricks of the riverwalk. Bonnie noticed as she came closer to the historic part of Savannah—Old Riverwalk—the ancient buildings with their thin windows, rusting terraces, and their dilapidated rooftops; sitting as if frozen in time, right above the same historic buildings that were converted to bars, tourist traps, and restaurants. The taverns were bustling with activity. There was a candy shop that she walked by that made everywhere around it smell like sugar; candy apples, baked goods. But really Savannah as a whole smelled like a strange mixture of saltwater and smog. It was a nice place to visit, Bonnie thought. But she was only here for a vacation, and she wouldn’t mind going back to California soon. Of course, she would make the most of her time in Savannah. But still, Bonnie knew that something like a three-week stay would be quite enough. She could only stay somewhere for so long before she started missing the long, golden beaches and the lively cityscape of California.

Looking out at the river, she noticed a procession of sober, industrial cargo boats flowing down the river. Then she saw a cruise ship that was four stories high, with opulent flags and opulent persons hanging from the balcony waving their brightly colored cocktails and chatting with one-another. Bonnie smiled at the people on the boat and she threw her hand up in the air to wave at them. She felt proud of herself, and when the boat passed she continued her brisk saunter with her head held high. She made a big deal of clicking her heels because they were new and she paid a lot of money for them.

She adjusted the strap of her silk-blue tank top, and she pulled up her black skirt. It was silky and short, and the fit was snug. Her skin was green like the olive and her eyes were brown like chestnuts; but when the sun shone on them they looked like honey. Her wiry black hair hung over her left shoulder in a braid, and she had a pair of rayban sunglasses that she paid a lot of money for as well. And she was glad to have brought them with her on her trip because in Savannah the sun was scorching and acerbic. It was beating her face and she could feel the sweat on her brow as she was strolling down the sidewalk. The air was humid; sultry. Bonnie thought to herself that it was hard to breathe.

Sauntering down the river-walk, she looked over towards the line of old buildings and she saw a bar that seemed interesting. It had a red parasol over the door and it had a chalkboard outside with the cocktail menu written on it.

“Today’s special: Artillery Punch!” It said.

There was a written in chalk a short history about where the cocktail originated, but Bonnie didn’t care about that. Most people probably didn’t care about that. She thought at once how nice it would be to stop by and have a drink. There was nothing to do today or tomorrow. She didn’t have to work, and she didn’t have any plans. Perhaps she would make some new friends at the bar. That would be nice, she thought.

Then without her noticing a truck drove up behind her, and its’ shrill horn blasted something awful at her. Bonnie jumped three feet in the air, and suddenly her palms grew clammy and her heart skipped a beat and she looked wide-eyed at the giant, metal, lurching truck that was inching closer and closer. Her face went pale. She rushed over to the entrance of the bar to get out of its way, and the truck proceeded to drive down the cobblestone walk and under a bridge in the distance. Bonnie sighed. She was still a little wide-eyed, and with a spacy sort of demeanor she went back to her hotel; no bar, no friends. She wasn’t in the mood to socialize anymore, and she felt too sick to do anything else.