On a narrow side street, among plain brick facades, a door opens onto dim battered wood floors. Bricks, dank with moss, line the cold, weathered walls warmed by the breath of patrons. Three booths and three tables fill the left of the room. The bar is ahead, a rectangle made of solid oak, six inches thick, carved into and burned by patrons over the years. A nineteenth century cash register faces into the cove where stands only the bartender. Three wooden-handled drafts wait their turns. An old man sits at the bar with his back to the others. Another man sits with a frantic woman. He is attentive, but not alarmed. In the far booth, facing the entrance, a stranger to the bar entertains herself, waiting.
Chloe keeps a crystalline hourglass. Flattered by its figure she looks on it close, mindful not to let the sand stop flowing. With her, the suicidal Bourgeois. He is two-faced, appears desperate, and keeps a concealed weapon holstered on his side out of habit. He listens to jokes and impersonations at bedtime, otherwise, he sobs in his sleep. He and Chloe are friends. Attracted to his remorse, and he to her ear, they spend hours passing cards.
Bianca, the junky girl with goals and morals. She speaks watercolors and gives flannel hugs, which is why so many men love her. She went for a French fix where she met Sonia, the sunken-eyed Russian. Sonia enters the bar and, with a pout, kicks her umbrella under the table on the far left. She slumps into her seat across from Bianca. She invited Sonia to meet her for a drink. Now, Bianca indulges and the two hold sparse conversation.
The man at the bar has hawks' brows piercing the bubbles in the bottom of his glass. He grew old in this bar. Once, he stole an orange to stand for freedom. He never told anyone and carried remorse for his deed. He was always in love with Lloyd, but could never say so. He sits, out of matches, and has three readied cigarettes he rolled with his brownish-orange finger tips. He recites an old poem under his breath.
Narrow rain hits the bricks that glow in the light of scattered street lamps. Pedestrians hold umbrellas or newspapers over their heads and walk quickly to reach home. An old woman, small and frail with white hair, passes the bar wearing black with a black umbrella. A young woman passes her the opposite direction wearing a purple mini-dress. It holds her body tight and shows her curves and where her body rolls. She raises a leopard print umbrella over her bouncy, full hair. Her breasts reach the edge of the dry-line under the umbrella with cleavage enough to hold water.
Bianca finds joy in her fix. She flashes pictures of the table-top and knocks her knees against the table legs, thinking they are Sonia. She sneezes like a mouse and wipes her nose. Sonia says, "Excuse me," and goes to the restroom, passing the hawk-browed man who notices. He looks at his three cigarettes, then into his beer, swills, and sets it down with a clack. She walks back from the restroom. He leans in front of her. "Light?" She hands him a damp book of matches. Before she walks on, he holds her arm with his large, abused hand. "I'd be careful with those truthful eyes you have," he tells her with an ernest, yellow gaze. "They look like lies to most people." The stunning, sunken-eyed Russian goes to her table, tells Bianca she must go, and she walks out with her battered umbrella.
"This is easier with someone," the Bourgeois says to Chloe. He grabs her trembling hand and asks her to stay with him forever. "I will take care of you," he offers, terrified of being alone. Unprepared for the proposal, she misses the flip of her hourglass and says nothing, staring at him. "Well?"
On the sidewalk, among the rain and sparkling street lamps, a toad of a man. His knees bend under the weight of his body, weak and tattered, which hunches at the shoulders, head looking up, and he stares out of bright, narrow eyes. A beaten suede hat sits low on his head, sopping wet. He shouts in the rain, "Miserable are they who have impure hearts!" He points across the way directly at Sonia. "You! I know your heart is pure!" He smiles and winks at her with eyes crisp and glowing. She rounds a corner and disappears in the catacombs alley.
The hawk-browed man tears at his beer and recites Hopelessly Nowhere, thunderously longing for someone to hear. He has not spoken to Lloyd in five years. Lloyd died two years ago. He sits by himself in this bar every night. He is respectful enough not to complain to the bartender, but she knows his worries. Now, he sits quiet with an occasional cough or groan as the ash grows on his cigarette he set on the bar, burning a mark into the wood.
Bianca takes her purse toward the door. The hawk-browed man stops her, shares a line of The Smiling Stranger, looking into her eyes. She nods unsure why he stopped her, laughs lovingly to him. He nods in return determined not to cry, then Bianca leaves. The old man, to the bubbles at the bottom of his glass, furrows his brow, and recites:
The cruel joke by
God; that cunning and sly,
malicious jester:
I could never be satisfied
if love did not leave me wanting.
In every bar, a haunting am I:
a brute with widow's eyes.
I have been cursed. I cry.
I stare into my grief,
which fills this beer stein;
and sit here, as God planned,
sullenly satisfied.
Chloe and the Bourgeois are wrapped in bedsheets, keeping each other awake all night so that she turns the hourglass and he doesn't cry. Sonia is in a friend's flat. Bianca is lost somewhere being propositioned. The hawk-browed man, last in the bar, stands and grabs his coat. He lays exact change, hunches his shoulders, tucks his chin into his neck, and turns for the door. He pushes open the heavy oak and walks into the misty, narrow side-street.
The streets are desolate but for the few late-night stragglers. The hawk-browed man walks steadily to his home as his smoke lingers behind. He crosses the toad who asks for a cigarette, then for a light. He hands him his last rolled cigarette and the damp book of matches. The rain lets up. A mist cuts through the toad's squinting eyes.
Every day and night, Rebecca is the first to the bar and the last to leave. No one knows where she takes her troubles. She would never tell them. She wipes down the bar; sweeps the floor and gathers the ash as it falls from her cigarette. No one would ever know of her enemies. She would not have it. Sinless Rebecca turns off the lights, locks the door behind her, and leaves down the narrow side-street.
Chloe keeps a crystalline hourglass. Flattered by its figure she looks on it close, mindful not to let the sand stop flowing. With her, the suicidal Bourgeois. He is two-faced, appears desperate, and keeps a concealed weapon holstered on his side out of habit. He listens to jokes and impersonations at bedtime, otherwise, he sobs in his sleep. He and Chloe are friends. Attracted to his remorse, and he to her ear, they spend hours passing cards.
Bianca, the junky girl with goals and morals. She speaks watercolors and gives flannel hugs, which is why so many men love her. She went for a French fix where she met Sonia, the sunken-eyed Russian. Sonia enters the bar and, with a pout, kicks her umbrella under the table on the far left. She slumps into her seat across from Bianca. She invited Sonia to meet her for a drink. Now, Bianca indulges and the two hold sparse conversation.
The man at the bar has hawks' brows piercing the bubbles in the bottom of his glass. He grew old in this bar. Once, he stole an orange to stand for freedom. He never told anyone and carried remorse for his deed. He was always in love with Lloyd, but could never say so. He sits, out of matches, and has three readied cigarettes he rolled with his brownish-orange finger tips. He recites an old poem under his breath.
Narrow rain hits the bricks that glow in the light of scattered street lamps. Pedestrians hold umbrellas or newspapers over their heads and walk quickly to reach home. An old woman, small and frail with white hair, passes the bar wearing black with a black umbrella. A young woman passes her the opposite direction wearing a purple mini-dress. It holds her body tight and shows her curves and where her body rolls. She raises a leopard print umbrella over her bouncy, full hair. Her breasts reach the edge of the dry-line under the umbrella with cleavage enough to hold water.
Bianca finds joy in her fix. She flashes pictures of the table-top and knocks her knees against the table legs, thinking they are Sonia. She sneezes like a mouse and wipes her nose. Sonia says, "Excuse me," and goes to the restroom, passing the hawk-browed man who notices. He looks at his three cigarettes, then into his beer, swills, and sets it down with a clack. She walks back from the restroom. He leans in front of her. "Light?" She hands him a damp book of matches. Before she walks on, he holds her arm with his large, abused hand. "I'd be careful with those truthful eyes you have," he tells her with an ernest, yellow gaze. "They look like lies to most people." The stunning, sunken-eyed Russian goes to her table, tells Bianca she must go, and she walks out with her battered umbrella.
"This is easier with someone," the Bourgeois says to Chloe. He grabs her trembling hand and asks her to stay with him forever. "I will take care of you," he offers, terrified of being alone. Unprepared for the proposal, she misses the flip of her hourglass and says nothing, staring at him. "Well?"
On the sidewalk, among the rain and sparkling street lamps, a toad of a man. His knees bend under the weight of his body, weak and tattered, which hunches at the shoulders, head looking up, and he stares out of bright, narrow eyes. A beaten suede hat sits low on his head, sopping wet. He shouts in the rain, "Miserable are they who have impure hearts!" He points across the way directly at Sonia. "You! I know your heart is pure!" He smiles and winks at her with eyes crisp and glowing. She rounds a corner and disappears in the catacombs alley.
The hawk-browed man tears at his beer and recites Hopelessly Nowhere, thunderously longing for someone to hear. He has not spoken to Lloyd in five years. Lloyd died two years ago. He sits by himself in this bar every night. He is respectful enough not to complain to the bartender, but she knows his worries. Now, he sits quiet with an occasional cough or groan as the ash grows on his cigarette he set on the bar, burning a mark into the wood.
Bianca takes her purse toward the door. The hawk-browed man stops her, shares a line of The Smiling Stranger, looking into her eyes. She nods unsure why he stopped her, laughs lovingly to him. He nods in return determined not to cry, then Bianca leaves. The old man, to the bubbles at the bottom of his glass, furrows his brow, and recites:
The cruel joke by
God; that cunning and sly,
malicious jester:
I could never be satisfied
if love did not leave me wanting.
In every bar, a haunting am I:
a brute with widow's eyes.
I have been cursed. I cry.
I stare into my grief,
which fills this beer stein;
and sit here, as God planned,
sullenly satisfied.
Chloe and the Bourgeois are wrapped in bedsheets, keeping each other awake all night so that she turns the hourglass and he doesn't cry. Sonia is in a friend's flat. Bianca is lost somewhere being propositioned. The hawk-browed man, last in the bar, stands and grabs his coat. He lays exact change, hunches his shoulders, tucks his chin into his neck, and turns for the door. He pushes open the heavy oak and walks into the misty, narrow side-street.
The streets are desolate but for the few late-night stragglers. The hawk-browed man walks steadily to his home as his smoke lingers behind. He crosses the toad who asks for a cigarette, then for a light. He hands him his last rolled cigarette and the damp book of matches. The rain lets up. A mist cuts through the toad's squinting eyes.
Every day and night, Rebecca is the first to the bar and the last to leave. No one knows where she takes her troubles. She would never tell them. She wipes down the bar; sweeps the floor and gathers the ash as it falls from her cigarette. No one would ever know of her enemies. She would not have it. Sinless Rebecca turns off the lights, locks the door behind her, and leaves down the narrow side-street.
BrianSGore is a writer of short stories, poems, and songs. He currently resides in New London, CT and has published several collections of original works including Barstool Ballads and Eleven Stories for Short … Attentions, as well as coordinating a collaborative project entitled A Collection of Poems by Various Poets Regarding the Line '10,000 Miles of Farewell’. His newest book, Tangled World, is available now, along with his new album Going, Never Stopping at briangoing.bandcamp.com.
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