#21

A graveyard of glass, lined with forgotten foam. Dregs. A white-haired old man, curt, grumpy. He and he alone mans the grill and the bar and he shuffles between the two, swapping spatula for green paper and driving the taps to release their lip-loosening contents. A dull roar of noise. The abrupt smack pool balls, the quiet thump of darts, the hum of secrets whispered over forgotten songs, laughter too loud for jokes not deserving. An aching grey disremembered that wisps under the door and through the cracks in the windowsill and into the seams of your body. That seeps into an old place and wakes a archaic sadness, a yearning unrealized. You will not find what you are looking for here.