The dim glow of the bar lights reflected off the polished metal counter, casting warm hues over the rows of liquor bottles neatly arranged on the shelves. The scent of whiskey, stale smoke, and faint perfume lingered in the air, mingling with the low hum of blues playing from an old jukebox in the corner.
I slid onto my usual stool, my fingers tapping absently against the counter. I didn’t have to say a word. The bartender, a man in his mid-fifties named Carl, had already reached for the bottle of bourbon.
“Rough night?” I asked as he poured a generous measure into My glass.
I exhaled slowly. “Something like that.” I picked up the glass, studied the amber liquid for a moment, then took a slow sip. The burn was familiar, comforting in a way that nothing else was these days.
I leaned against the counter, wiping my hands with a rag. “You know, I’ve been doing this a long time,” I said. “Seen all kinds of people come through that door. Some looking for trouble, some looking for an escape. You? You just look lost.”
I let out a dry chuckle. “That obvious, huh?”
Carl shrugged. “It’s in the way you drink. Slow, like you’re trying to make it last but hoping it hits harder than it does."
I swirled the bourbon in his glass. He didn’t deny it. It had been months since Emily left, but the echo of her absence still followed him like a shadow. He could still hear her voice in the silence of his apartment, see her reflection in the empty side of the bed.
“She ever coming back?” Carl asked, as if reading his thoughts.
I sighed. “I don’t think so.”
Carl nodded, as if he already knew the answer. “Then you’ve got two choices, son. Keep drowning in this glass, or start swimming to shore.”
I took another sip, staring into the amber depths of his drink as if they held the answer. The truth was, he didn’t know how to stop waiting for something that wasn’t coming back.
Carl set the bottle down beside him. “Pour yourself another if you want. But maybe, just maybe, tonight’s the night you decide you don’t need to.”
I hesitated, then reached for the bottle. His fingers hovered over it, uncertain. The jukebox switched songs, the blues fading into something softer, something lighter.
For the first time in a long time, he considered leaving the glass half-full.
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