The Bar

He sat at the end of the bar with a cold glass of ginger ale in his right hand. His head was tilted slightly downwards – an eccentric scientist would probably estimate the tilt to be at the 10 degrees, just high enough to see the menu scribbled along the dimly-lit walls yet low enough to fit the stereotypical image of a loner at a bar on a Friday night. Every so often the man at the end of the bar would grip his glass with resolve, pull it towards his dissenting lips and take another sip, regardless if he was actually thirsty or not.

In the corner of his eye he spotted a man with a 5 o’clock shadow and stylized hair walking towards him. That man was carrying a glass of dark-brown liquid in one hand and a fist-full of change in the other. The man at the end of the bar looked behind him and noticed a jukebox that looked like it was from the 1950’s. He thought to himself that the hair-styled man was looking to fill the ambiance with some contemporary pieces, the usual songs about love lost and maybe hopes about the future. If he had bet his life savings on this gesture he would have, at least, earned enough money to pay rent for a duration longer than three months in a row, the man at the end of the bar thought. He smirked at the lost opportunity as he turned his head back towards the menu, sipping another mouthful of ginger ale.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned around to see the hair-styled man sitting beside him, still cupping the glass of dark-brown liquid in his hand. The jukebox began to play the requested song, cutting the silence between them in two.