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.


  1. Mesmerising. ...very visual

  2. Played out beautifully in my head. Thanks for the vivid imagery.

  3. Nice work. Try to describe the bartender the next time on. then it'll be a beautiful imagery for me too.

  4. I know you miss me.


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