BAR

He is sitting on the bar in front of his half-empty beer inside a small pub on the outskirts of the city.
“Pour me another one will you,” he says to the bartender standing on the opposite side of the counter. He doesn't usually stop here, he prefers drinking his end-of-the-day drink at his house. Most of the time the atmosphere at these pubs is not to his liking, and he always needs to step outside when yearning for a cigarette. Surprisingly though, when he entered, Neil Young was playing and smoke was already filling the room. So he decided to get himself a beer before going back home. 

It’s the end of the week and the place is half full. Mostly the usuals. The chair is wobbly and the counter has seen better days. As a matter of fact, so have the customers. This area is not what it once was. He grabs several peanuts from the bowl with his hand and eats them. Dry and old. He finishes his drink with a gulp and lights another cigarette as his new beer arrives. 

Half a beer and three cigarettes later his phone vibrates. He picks up his phone from the counter and checks the message.
“How’s it going man? How are you feeling? I heard from Jay what happened between you and Svetlana. I’d really like to get together tonight and talk.” 

The message is from Newman, one of his closest friends. 

Also a friend! Half a year I haven’t heard from him and now he finally remembers. “I’m all good mate. Feeling fantastic. Thanks for your concern.” He answers and goes back to his thoughts.
What a shit day it’s been. Again he fought with his boss, about the same meaningless issues. What does it even matter? A useless job in a useless society. As if anything he does will actually make a difference.
His phone vibrates again. “You sure? It’s been a long time since we last met. Where are you now? I’ll come over.”
God this is starting to annoy me. Can’t I even drink in peace?
“I’m at home. Going to sleep early. Got some errands to do early in the morning. Let’s talk tomorrow sometime in the afternoon.” 

“Sleep really? Talk to me before you go to bed. I’ll come by for one beer and go. No more than 30 minutes.”
All his friends are travelling the world, getting into serious relationships, doing things... living the life... and every once in a while they remember that he exists. He could leave this country, disappear, and no one will notice. 

He turns off his phone, places it deep in his jacket pocket, and signals the bartender for another drink. And fucking Svetlana. Why did he have to mention her at all? She knew how much this move meant to him, how much she meant to him, and still, she slept with that asshole. 

How much has he drunk already? He wanted to get up early. The house needs to be cleaned, groceries need to be bought and there was that thing in the bank he had to settle. He also had a meeting in the afternoon, god knows why he set it for the weekend. 

In one big gulp, he finishes his drink, pays the bill, and steps outside.
Taking a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and lighting it, inhaling deeply and slowly exhaling the smoke he starts his long walk back to the apartment. Somewhat intoxicated and walking with a slight wobble his thought absorb him. He remembers the pile of dishes that need to be washed, the groceries that need to be bought, the paperwork that needs to be filled before his meeting. Staring at the ground he slows his pace, trying to delay his arrival at home and back to reality.
How will it help to clean the apartment? It’ll get messy in a second. Useless. The meeting tomorrow, just as useless. Useless talk that leads to nowhere. Work? The most useless of them all. A boss that has no appreciation and workers with no substance. Not a person in the world cares for me and I’ll be alone forever without any love.

“Hey!” someone shouts
He almost bumped into the woman standing before him. In high heels, she’s a couple of inches higher than him. He feels embarrassed staring into those deep blue eyes, with his shabby clothe and his untrimmed beard. She was impeccable. She was always impeccable. Svetlana.
“Everything alright? I tried calling you from the other side of the road.” 

He tries focusing on her face. How long since he last saw her?
“Are you drunk?” she asks worryingly. He shrinks a bit into his jacket from the cold. Lost in words.
“What are you doing here?” he eventually asks.
“I was looking for you, I want for us to talk and you weren’t answering my calls. I’m worried about yo-”
“We have nothing to talk about” he cuts her off and tries walking passed her.
“Wait a second! I want to apologise. I never wanted things to end this way between us. You are really important to me. Just give me a moment to expla-”
“I don’t need your explanation! Nothing you can say will fix what you did.” He cuts her off again and storms off. Leaving her behind.
“Get your shit together man. What do you need with an evil woman like her? A scheming and treacherous woman.” He says to himself.
His anger though fades away quickly and he goes back to his feelings of loneliness. He was so happy with her, life was so great.
Arriving at his apartment building he stumbled up to the third floor until reaching the door, stopping several times along the way to retrieve his balance. With care and great difficulty he inserts the key in the lock and opens the door. Entering his empty apartment and walking straight to the Jim Beam bottle placed on the kitchen counter. Bottle and glass in hand he continues to the stereo system in the living room, rifling through his record collection until he finds Neil Young’s “Harvest Moon” album. He remembers how they danced in the forest under the moonlight with song no. 4, their song, playing in the background.
Placing the record on the turntable and placing the needle on the record he sits down on the sofa, filled glass in his hand. 

What a simpler time it used to be. He did truly love her. And they were happy together.
When their song starts he can’t stop the tears and he starts to cry. A quiet cry, not a sound, but the tears don't stop. Shoving his head in his hands he tries to stop himself. With a large sigh, he wipes the tears from his face and gulps the remainder of the liquid in his glass. He fills another glass and in pain paces around the living room. Unable to stand the pain he walks to the bathroom and takes out of the drawer a small bottle of sleeping pills he once got for a long flight. Returning to the living room he flips the record and sits on the sofa. Opening the bottle he takes out a pill and swallows, using the whiskey to help it go down. One pill won’t do. He knows it and takes another. The pain inside insists on staying and he can’t see how he could continue with such a meaningless life. 

“Fuck it!” he says aloud. As if to justify his thoughts and he empties the contents of the medicine bottle into his mouth and swallows. Picking up the whisky bottle off the table he gulps nonstop until the fiery liquid fills his stomach. 

He lies on the sofa, waiting for the darkness to wrap his body and release him from his hopeless prison. Silence falls into his head and he lies motionless on the sofa. The scratching sound of the record fills the room, the needle waiting to be lifted and placed back in its place.