a man sits alone at a bar

A man sits alone at a bar.

He shrugs his jacket to the creasing in the booth, raindrops slipping from leather to leather.

With a sigh, his drink appears.

In a world where simple functions happen in the pauses, and the pauses come unnoticed, he finds himself one drink down.

The ice clanks and spins and he notices he has ink on his hands, a smudge on his face, and a furrowed brow.

He can’t remember why he’s sad but it makes him happy to feel that way.

A constant in a sea of flux.

Another drink appears and his hand has found it’s way around it.

The first sip into another, and another, and…

A woman appears.

Her skirt tight around her ass, heels strapped up her ankles, a shirt that hangs just over her shoulders.

But with this complex function he takes in every moment.

He is hung on her every move, every word, said or unsaid.

A man sits, compelled.

He closes his notebook, hides the ink stains. Smiles with some false sense of security.

His jacket is hung at the front of the bar with care, and the waitress asks if there’s anything else he’d like.

The woman turns her head briefly and orders in a hush with slender fingers over lips.

They connect from across the table. He with his charming smile, she ever so proper.

He doesn’t know who she is but for some reason he’s known her for his entire life.

Every bit and piece of her telling some story of a girl he used to know.

Let me tell you a secret she says.

He leans in, baring his ink stained hands, showing his battle wounds, vulnerable to her.

For she has all the answers, and he desperately seeks them night, after night, after night.

But then she disappears.

His jacket still behind him. Slumped and wrinkled. Wet and sticking to his back.

He looks down at the blank pages in front of him, and then around him at the empty bar, and then into nothing.

A man sits, and writes.

He likes how it feels when the pen presses to paper, but only when he has something to say.

The way the words flow out of him as though they’re trying to escape. Down through his arm.

Out through his finger tips and through the ink.

It glides seamlessly, effortlessly, as though the things he had no words for suddenly make sense.

If only he can explain it, express it, sing it out loud, everyone will know.

And he’ll be free of it.

He’s moving faster now that’s she’s left him with these inspirations.

Those fingertips, her coy smile, the way she dances when she walks.

He’s not sure if he’s dreamed her up entirely or if she really existed, if only for a moment.

Maybe she only existed for him.

He wants to share how she made him feel.

And so he shares himself so eloquently and writes about what he knows.

A woman who loved him and left him, among all daily formalities.

And yet with nothing else so extraordinary, she helped him find the words.


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