Bar Scene

I sat at the bar staring at the drink in front of me. I was so tired of this city. Everywhere I went I was alone. It seemed impossible to make friends around here. Sure it had only been a few days, but I’m one to pride myself on being able to land on my feet no matter where I am. It seems this time I was going to have a few broken legs as well. Or was I already broken before I came here. I’m not so sure anymore.

I decided to play an old game I’d play when I got bored. Watching groups of people, I would write my own personal story for them. Like the hagridden man at the end of the bar, he looked to be in his late fifties. Three empty shot glasses sat beside him, each one a fallen soldier to his misery. By looking at him I decided that his good wife had died three years prior. No children between them. And this was their anniversary night. He would come here every year and add one more shot to drown away his sadness.

He has his wife’s dog to keep him company, a little beagle he never really liked, but it’s the only living thing connecting him to his passed wife. The dog would keep him up nights howling for his missing mistress, never really understanding why she would never be coming back home. And in this anguish they both found solace in each other.

Over in the corner, one couple was fighting at a table by the door. I imagined their conversation something like this:

“What do you mean, we’re breaking up?”

“Well dear.” He said this with a fair amount of venom and sarcasm, “You never really took the time to get to know me. And I think after all this time, I really did get to know who and what you truly are. What’s sad is that because of these two disparate reasons we are going to have the same conclusions. I don’t care that you won’t be part of my life because I do know what you are. And you won’t care that I won’t be part of yours because you have no idea what I am.”

She looked at him blankly, grabbed her drink and poured it over his head. I suppose that relationship truly was over. The only other person in the bar sat behind it, pulling out drinks. The bartender was in her late twenties and had jet-black hair. She had black ink tattoos all over her arms.

For the first time, I had no story to create for this person. I tried many scenarios in my head, but nothing would coalesce in my mind. I again felt tired of being here, in this city, without any friends or people to connect with. I found it was best to leave this bar now. Back into the streets I plodded, smelling the desperation in the air, I decided to head back to my place.

-V-