He stands behind the bar.
His demeanor is calm,
not caring
about anything but
the meticulous arrangement of liquor bottles.
With a white ragged cloth in his right hand
he grips the glass necks
between
his three first fingers and thumb.
He people watches.
slowly he paces back and forth
behind his protective

separation

seeing the world behind his sleep laden eye lashes.
He sways to the music of
golf commentators and steam cleaning dishwashers.
Tired, broken, slightly drunk from sips of ***
he sneaks
when no one is looking,
he lets each palm lay flat
against the cold plastic granite counter top.
To his right two women
in their fifties
are lulling about grandchildren,
while the
click
clicking
of a laptop causes a stressful twitch in his left eye.
New customer.
"Hi, how you doing?"
She walks away, slightly bothered
he pays more loving attention to
hot glass out of the steam washer
than her need for a twelve dollar glass of
bitter clear looking liquor.
More people.
four this time.
"Hi there, how are ya?"
The woman asks in a loud voice.
Shes happy, excited waiting for
a husband back from a business trip.
She orders a glass of champagne
while the man shes with wants Budweiser.
"We only have light. Is that okay?"
The man looks ******,
as if he himself should take on
responsibility of a society growing more fond

of an inebriated state of mind.

As the woman continuous to talk
unending
he places the wine glass before her,
all the while thinking
with a bitter delight
that her husband,
who has frequent trips
sees a different girl every night.
He knows this,
all the staff at the airport
that have an occasional drink know this.
But his wife,
his obnoxiously cheerful wife,
sits in blissful ignorance.

They're still talking,
still trying to make conversation
while a baby mewls in the background,
and the golf spectators cheer at a whole in one.
He's tired.
let off momentarily by the bar manager
he sneaks another small glass of
***
mixes it with Dr. Pepper before walking into the back.
His breathing is methodical,
he waits for a sound,
anything
at all to signify his existence,
his meaning of living
before he takes another sip of his drink.
The *** goes down hard,
***** threatens
to
displace
his pride
but he manages to keep it down.
"YO!"
He winches
at the rust filled tone in his managers voice.
More people have pulled into the bar.
Its busy he needs help.
He lets out a curse
it bursts forth then
settles
hovering before is red eyes
before pushing away from the desk.
The metal legs scrap against the stone floor.
Another sound that makes his mind
believe that ***** is the only
escape
to some type of comfort.
His rubber soled shoes squish as he walks.
He sighs.
Sounds of golf cheering and baseball playing
distracts him
momentarily from his misery.

A jolt of pain doubles him over.

"Has my temple split?" he thinks.
He gingerly flutters his first three fingers
against the vein pounding incessantly.

A young woman walks up the the bar.

She belongs on a beach, he thinks.
Her hair hangs between her shoulder blades.
Her eyes are are light,
her skin glows
between her light turquoise mesh shirt
and bleach white shorts.
She orders a cold coffee,
he pushes the can over slowly
watching
her shell earrings clink against her jaw bone.
She gets up,
he watches,
and walks from the bar.
An arm wraps around her waist
outside the threshold of the bar
and kisses her softly on her forehead.
Her father perhaps.
She doesn't look back.

He did not stick at all in her mind.

He instantly erases her face
and resumes to dancing his fingertips
against his excited vein.
The clocks reads 8:25.
Two more hours.