You sit there, all alone, staring at the bottles laid out in front you like a mural of reminders of all the mistakes you wish to bury at this end of this one, and the next one, and the one afterwards until the very thought of your existence makes your gut shrivel.
The bartender sweetly keeps pouring you another one, no judgement, just a glimpse of worry — maybe this could be your last one.
She walks over to inquire, if everything has been alright, how your day’s been, and this you read as a sign, a signal, pour your heart out.
This isn’t the first time or the last that she’ll have to listen to your pitiful story, which you wish you bury at the end of the bottle, as you take another sip thinking this feels a lot like “Leaving Las Vegas”.
“I’ve had a rough life”, you’ll say.
She’ll nod and smile, tell you “it’s going to be okay”.
No matter how much you hope that is the moment you’ve been waiting for, it isn’t, it’s never going to be.
This isn’t a movie and you’re not the only sad story she’s had to listen to tonight.
It’s the warm embrace, the soft touch, the feeling of seemingly worthy conversations that you feel she cares, without realising it’s her job to do so — to serve patrons such as yourself night after night, the sad stories are never ending.
You don’t look beyond the smile, ever wonder if she too has a dream of her own, one she has yet to realise — it’s not important right now, because she’s more compelled to listen to your ramblings than she is to discuss her life with a drunken stranger.
Some times she even pours your drink right as you enter into this bizarre little corner of the earth; filled with smoke, blood, vomit, and countless other souls who come here to clench their thirst for desire.
She looks beautiful every day, you start to wonder if she does it for you. You become possessive and agitated when she looks to other patrons, offering to serve them beyond you; how dare she?
Your jealousy takes control, and you revolt without realising what you’re about to do is going to cost a lot more than a moment of mild embarrassment; it will be the ruin, the repetition of the very cliché she’s witnessed countless times before.
Just another drunken sailor, a loner looking for comfort in a place where none resides.