Saturday, November 9

A little chat with the Bartender

"You look thirsty," he says.

"Your worst. Bitter. Rough. Strong."

"Cheap ale, I assume," he says as he pours it correctly.

He drops a glance at my indifference. I accept it with a make believe smile. Obviously, see through.

"Somethings are more disgraceful than a wrongly poured ale," he starts. I nod. To which he leaned with stance of a true barman, "what's botherin' ya?"

"It's a night alone."

"Well," he says moving back, "nothing wrong with that."

"No?... no!" I say shaking my head. "Just you're with what you don't want, want what you don't have... y'know..." I let my voice trail off. "I just want," I take a deep breath, a sip of that drink, about five seconds, "something that puts me to sleep the moment I hit the bed, and something bitter to make me forget that I'm alone."

He allows a momentary silence, listening it as if he's been there.

I'm not botherin' him really. I take that down in a single gulp. And there, I stop to ask, "how much?"

"Take that on the house," he says.

I raise a toast to him. This thing is really strong.

"You, a rookie?" he asks.

"First time alcoholic."

"That calls for one pint water, two pints paracetamol." I nod. Sure. Paracetamol. I eat that before food. What I could use is a decent smoke. There's a jukebox in the corner, playin' my song. One more night... Phil Collins.  "Like a river to the sea" and here I am....

I'm fucking missing you.