writing prompt: the empty glass

He sat, protectively hunched over his glass, at the far end of the bar, in the shadows, away from the flashing lights of the under-crowded dance floor, its under-whelming and under-dressed dancers. He turned his back on them, keenly aware that their collective alcohol-fueled giddiness and lack of inhibition represented an unexplored galaxy in his personal universe, one which he seemingly lacked the will, the power or even the knowledge to travel to. So he did his best to ignore them; after all, you cannot miss something whose very existence you refuse to admit.

He sighed and focused on the shelves behind the bar. The mirrored wall would have reflected a painful reminder of the company he so willingly scorned, along with his own sorry portrait, had there not been shelf upon heaving shelf of stocked bottles, each one glistening in the low light, beckoning with a different poison, selling a different illusion. As a youth, he’d been partial to beer, for the sheer amount that could be purchased from unscrupulous vendors on a poor student’s shoestring budget. On the other hand, its effects paled in comparison to that of some of the bartender’s bounty – the smooth burn of whiskey, the dry sigh of gin, the nothingness of vodka.

And oblivion was precisely what he was after tonight. He peered into his glass and frowned: a lone ice cube was itself fading into nothingness. He grunted, perhaps the only attempt at communication he had made since taking up residence at the end of the bar. There was no immediate response in his vicinity. Perhaps he had reached oblivion after all, just as one attains nirvana, and there was simply no “him” left to acknowledge.

He raised his head, not bothering to brush the ebony hair from his eyes; he shifted on the barstool and peered over his shoulder. On his right, the bartender, a tall strapping fellow with an engaging smile, leaned over the counter with a knowing flirtatious smirk and whispered into a short brunette’s neck. Something fairly obscene, he presumed, since she lowered her head, covered her mouth and giggled. In better light, she probably would have blushed furiously. “Whatever happened to bros before hos,” he thought, quickly calculating that he had tipped the young man far more than the young lady could conceivably spend in an entire evening and still stand upright. Her green doe eyes sparkled. The bartender was going to leave with her, and he was out of service. On this particular night, that would not do.

He stood, steadied himself on the bar’s old-fashioned brass railing, and leaned over to pull up the first bottle absentmindedly left on the counter. Jim Beam. In other circumstances, he might have smiled. Instead, he just sat down unceremoniously, dumped the puddling ice cube onto the floor, and set about tending his own bar. He debated whether to even use a glass, but a speck of vestigial propriety piped up from deep within. He obliged, pouring himself what had to be at least a triple, the amber liquid sloshing against the smudged glass wall. “Oblivion, here I come,” he thought, bringing the glass to eye level in a silent toast, then to his lips as he threw his head back.

(542)