/lit/ - Literature

First attempt I've made at a full length novel. Some feedback would be great.
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The air was thick with smoke in St Lizzy's, and thin beams of light cut through it from the street lamp outside, lighting up the dust that floated lazily around the room. The carpet was a dark red to match the bar stools, and framed cigarette adverts from the fifties hung from the columns and behind the stage.
“Two thirds of all physicians recommend menthol cigarettes!” declared one, a fact evidenced by the smiling, smoking man with a stethoscope that stood in the foreground, holding out an open packet of Camels.
Louis wasn't sure if the adverts were meant to be some sort of ironic joke. In fact, living in Melbourne was making him lose track of what the word meant. He scanned the bar and saw nothing but young, arrogant university students, all deeply engaged in staring silently at the decidedly average jazz band that was playing, their faces conveying a kind of complex understanding and approval.
Six years ago St Lizzy's had been his bar. He would come here after his classes had finished, flanked by five or six of his mates from university, and they would drink and watch the bands play. The place had been louder then, and livelier. It was tempting to think that back then the bar had attracted a different kind of customer, one that was less interested in their image, but in truth it had always been more or less the same. From Louis' generation to the next, and probably the next few to come, a jazz bar had never been somewhere that people came to just have a good time. You wanted to have fun, sure, but you wanted to be seen to be having the right kind of fun. An intellectual kind of fun.
Louis couldn't help but wonder who he was trying to impress now.
He slid off his stool and walked across the room to the toilets, throwing his shoulder into the heavy wooden door to push it open. The bright, fluorescent lights inside made him blink, and as the room came back into focus he saw himself in the mirror.
“Fuck me,” he muttered to himself. He was twenty eight years old, with a short brown beard and a hairline that crept further from his face every time he looked. Crows feet had formed next to his watery blue eyes, and the bags underneath them seemed to have become permanent. Looking at himself, Louis could swear he was becoming shorter as well. Maybe he just carried himself differently these days.
He turned and walked to the urinal, the one in the corner, farthest from the door. The last thing he wanted was some smug prick in a beret coming in and comparing cocks with him.