lovelorn

one

leave your lover- sam smith
silver springs- fleetwood mac

The bar is empty.

That's a major hint that you've probably been there far too long, but you can't find it in you to care.

That's a major hint that you've reached rock bottom.

You swirl the drink in your hand around, letting out a satisfied sigh when the ice clinks against the glass. You raise it to your mouth and finish it with just a few gulps, slapping it back down, "Another."

"Haven't you had enough?" The bartender looks at you, clearly worried. You almost laugh in his face, not because you're rude, but because you're the kind of drunk that makes you insensitive. He was only looking out for you, yet your intoxicated mind can barely wrap your head around it.

"Isn't it your job to take my money? Please, just take my money."

The bartender sighed, you think his name is Greg. He's a bald headed, hefty guy. One who rode a Harley, and only felt at home in the center of the mosh pit at some death metal show. He had told you about his adventures in a band of his own, but that was years ago when he was young and had a head full of hair. Now he was the owner of some hole in the wall bar where people came to (1) hide from their life or (2) hide from other people. Right now, you can't tell if you're doing both or neither.

He pours you another glass and you shoot him a triumphant smile. It's returned with a grimace and a "That's your last one, girly." You make the decision to savor it. Taking a sip, actually tasting the whiskey, and feeling the burn down your throat is a much different experience than downing it as fast as you can. Your New Year's resolution was to stop drinking just to get drunk, and it's quite pitiful how it's turned out.

You're about to make conversation with the bartender, thinking that maybe you can get another drink out of him if you just play nice, but the sound of the stool next to you being dragged against the concrete floor has you turning towards your new neighbor. You almost turn back around, but the call of your name makes you do a double take, "Harry?"

He smirks his signature smirk, the one that sends the freckle that resides next to his lip a few centimeters higher. His emerald eyes are glistening, and you squint because in your intoxicated mind, they're glowing blindingly bright. His hair is much longer than you remember, that's the reason you barely recognized your friend. His usual short, pushed back do was now hanging at lengths way past his shoulder. You eye his hair, and your mind involuntarily travels back to the bald bartender. Harry has a head full of hair, and you hope he keeps it. He deserves to be that one grandfather with the thickest grey hair that still makes all the women weep. The image suits him. His mouth moves and you think he's speaking, but you're so out of it you can barely hear. It's as if you're underwater and his voice is muffled. "Come again?"

He clears his throat and speaks louder this time. "I've missed you."

You roll your eyes, "I thought you stood me up."

"Never. There was traffic on the way back from the airport. I should've known, yeah? There always is. Should've told you to meet me at a later time." For the first time since he's sat down he eyes your drink. "What are we drinking?"

"Nothing. I've been cut off, and you've come just in time to be my designated driver, sir." Of course your words come out slurred and screwed, yet he understands them. He always understands.

"That sounds good to me, but I would like a quick shot of something. It's been a long night."

"I don't doubt it."

He waves the bartender over and orders two shots of something that you don't hear because your mind finds a way to wander back to Harry balding. Him pushing a shot glass in your direction brings your mind back on track. He raises his shot glass towards you and you pick yours up, "Cheers!"