Lyle's hand is warm. It's a welcome change from the cool, brisk air the bar's latest patrons brought in when they opened the door.

"I don't care much for the taste of alcohol," she admits. "So I like anything that can hide the flavor."

She looks down, suddenly embarrassed. Though her tastes had grown over the years, she never quite developed a taste for alcohol.

"Oh, by the way... You may call me Celia if you want to."