Amidst the rancor of the bar the conversation lulled. After the last "remember when?" I watched the puddle of beer foam at the bottom of my glass.
"Ohhhh..." I mutter with a fleating half-grin. As if to say "Good times" but somehow unable to do so.
He sat across from me staring not at the empty Budweisers in front of him, bit past them. He stared into shadows around the edges, the floorboards below the table, and the earth beneath that. To him if he just looked hard enough, he could almost make out the other side of the world.
He clenched the can and it made a subtle pop yet remained uncrushed.
Staring on, just louder than a whisper, with a fleating half-grin, he said "I hate my life."