Last Call
27 01 2008I sat at the end of the bar, sipping straight whiskey, shot after shot. The dimly lit night spot, filled with smoke and chatter, could not have been lonelier if it was empty.
The couple in the back mocked me with their loving embrace, longing looks and nondiscreet actions under the table. I wanted to pour my drink on them and strike a match.
But really it wasn’t them. It was her. She did this to me. So I set my tongue on fire. Then my throat. Right down to my guts. With the whiskey, that is. Then I ordered up another.
The barkeep cast a wary eye, then silently poured me another double. I slapped down another fiver as tip, and as he ambled away he turned to look at it, and me, in a way that said he thought of me as less than the crud on the bottom of his shoe.
I was too busy to notice. The hatch was being prepared for another assault. The dizzying nausea, accompanied by a wave of pity let me know that I’d reached my destination. No need for further torture.
She was gone.
The kids were gone.
The house was gone.
The love was gone.
I fumbled for my phone. I flipped it open and went, clumsily, to the call log. And there it was, still … 6:55 p.m., Shelly. I had deleted the message, but the words still echoed in my head. It was done.
I slowly rose, and stumbled, before grasping the edge of the bar. The barkeep wasn’t paying attention to me, or else he may have offered to get my a cab. But to go where? So I walked slowly into the rain outside. The downpour did nothing to sooth my soul.
We were still over.
Categories : Poetry





