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Paul had recently started to wonder: Do you get over death the way you
get over life? His breath fogged on the side of his glass as he held it to the
light, swirling the contents, seeing more than dark liquid. Inside was memory
and speculation, images conjured by his own reflection. At home, there were
all the routines of day to day life. Here, he could escape, take pause and
truly breathe. He might have chosen a garden, or fishing, but neither earthy
things nor outdoor pursuits got on particularly well with Paul, nor he with
them.
He placed his glass gently on the table, his table, slowly inhaling the
smoke and chatter circulating around him, indulging. The bar was dingy and
crowded, but it was a place where he could truly be alone. He was ignored
mostly, apart from the occasional nod of recognition. That was it — solidarity
in their mutual isolation.
Turning over the newspaper, he pulled his glasses out, perched them on
the end of his nose, then fished a pen out of his pocket and started tapping it
on the page next to the crossword. Now and again, he might glance at a clue,
but it was really just for show. That way, the rest of his makeshift family
might leave him alone. The television above the bar served as another escape.
He could focus on the middle distance, pretending. Here, the talking didn’t
impinge upon his concentration, like it did at home. The main problem was that
Annie expected him to listen. Here, nobody asked him anything. He lifted his
glass and took another slight sip, the taste of peat and seaweed burning across
his tongue, giving him something he could hold on to.
And that was the problem. There was nothing left. After retirement,
there had been things to look forward to. Time together, the kids. But the
kids had moved away years ago. There was just him and Annie now. He loved
her well enough. It was just that when you did things over and over again,
heard the same conversations, your grasp became a little less firm. You
started to lose strength. Strength of feeling, strength of will, he wasn’t
quite sure which.
They too had had their circle of friends, but things happened, people
moved away, people died.
Paul sighed, folded his glasses away and slipped them in his pocket.
He turned the paper back over, and put the pen away inside his jacket. Holding
his glass up for one more contemplative look, he swallowed the last of its
contents, placed it down and slowly got to his feet.
"Good night, Paul," said the barman.
"Yes, good night, Walter," he said, as he headed for the door.
Walter was right. It had been a good night.
He took a deep breath of the clammy evening air as he stepped out onto
the damp, slick street and headed for home, pulling his coat tightly against
the chill.
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