Tonight she easily found a seat at the nearly deserted bar of the pub near her home. She sat alone listening to a background murmur of conversation from the tube and a game of darts in the corner but a few minutes alone before the bartender slid her drink over.
Swiveling in her seat, two stools away sat a man staring into his own tumbler of nostalgia. Feeling her stare, he turned to her slightly. She lifted her glass and drank.
He looked back to his own while the keep drew her another. This one she left sitting on the damp napkin as she contemplated heart matters.
Unsurprisingly within a few moments, her impromptu companion opened his mouth.
“She was the best thing that ever happened in my life.” This he spoke carefully to the glass sitting before him.
“He was the best in mine,” she told her own, nodding.
“She loved me right up until the day she didn’t.” He lamented.
“He made me feel like no other.” She countered.
“She made my skin burn and my mind quiet.”
“He brought peace to my soul.”
“I thought we’d always be together.”
“He was my beginning and my ending.”
“She saw the pictures on my phone.”
“He hurt me beyond all reason.”
“She said she could forgive but not forget.”
“I cried as I stumbled out that door.”
“There’ll never be another like her.”
“He left a permanent mark upon my heart.”
“She won’t answer my texts.”
“I want to pick up the phone.”
“She could make me a better man.”
“He was all I ever wanted.”
“I don’t know where to go from here.”
“Maybe I should call him.”
“She needs to know….”
“He should hear me say….”
“I love you.”
Both of their hands then trembled as they lifted their drinks as one. The glasses raised, paused, held. Slowly lowered. Turning towards one another, each saw the fire of passion built on embers of love reflected back under the dim lights of the bar.
“Do you really mean that?”
“Can we start over?”
“I think we can.”
“I’m willing to try.”
“Come home with me?”
This post was inspired, mostly, as I was reading Joseph A. Pinto‘s stuff. Check him out, you might like his barfly poetry as much as I do.
tara caribou | ©2019
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