The stool squeaks like it always does as he pulls it from beneath the bar. He drops down on it. Heavy. Worn.
The bartender wanders over and asks the man if he’ll have the same as always. “The usual?” He asks.
And the man nods, barely lifting his chin from his sunken chest. He nods and places his elbows on the bar. Slouches forward.
The bartender sets the scotch and soda down on a coaster and slides the glass under the man’s nose. “You need a straw tonight?”
This snaps the man back to present. This brings his gaze up to see the bartender’s playful smirk. “No, I do not need a straw,” the man says as he picks the drink up from the bar and delivers a generous gulp to his stomach in defiance.
But the bartender has already turned when the man clunks his glass back down. He scans the other patrons’ faces to see if he had an audience, but no one is looking at him. No one cares.
He resettles his chin on his chest and sighs heavily. “Suppose there’s not much left to do,” he mutters. Then takes out an avocado. And makes some guacamole.
