Loz (lozenger8) wrote,

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The very young do not always do as they are told...

Title: The Bar Situation
Fandom: None. Original fiction.
Word Count: 500 words.
Notes: I've got into that "I can't write" mode again. So I did, I just wrote whatever came into my mind, with an aim for 500 words.

So there’s a bar, and it’s late, and even though I don’t drink, I go in. You know, it’s all dark out and I don’t particularly want to be on the street right now. I slide through the door and take a look at my surroundings. I actually think it might be darker in here than it is outside. The walls are this musty green that's seen better days, the floor’s been painted black, and the bar isn’t mahogany or rosewood or even pine, it’s like, MDF or something. Nice place I have here. If the wood’s made out of wood dust, I question the contents of the bottles stood along the shelves.

“Can I help you?”

“Water, please.”

“Anything else?’

“Not right now.”

I half contemplate a ‘thank you’, but he’s already gone so there’s not much point wasting breath on pleasantries. The actual bar is just inside the front door of the establishment, and then there’s this dividing wall with an archway leading into a wider room. There’s a cracked vinyl couch along one wall, with the sole occupant of a beer bottle, but a couple of the tables house disgruntled drinkers.

I wait for my water, which appears in a bottle with a charge of two-dollars-fifty and sit down next to the lonesome, forgotten beverage. And it’s only now that I really question why I came in. What made me think I belonged in this place? The answer is, of course, that it never crossed my mind. But if I don’t belong outside, I may as well not belong inside.

The man closest to me lifts his head up from the table, groans and lets it fall back down. I sip on my water. The guy at the bar attempts to conceal the fact he’s looking at me. I turn to the bottle sitting on the cushion next to me and wonder when it will be put out of its misery, contents poured down the drain, body cleaned out and set out for recycling.

Perhaps an hour goes by, maybe an hour and a half. It could be close to two hours. Faint music’s been playing all the while, the not-quite-sultry tones of 1980s pop. Not that I have anything against excessive use of the synthesizer. One denizen has stumbled outside and into the wider world. The other looks ready to leave, if only he can remember where to go.

I decide it’s time for my farewell. Next time, who knows, I might even buy an alcoholic beverage. Or not. Probably there won’t be a next time. The romance of the late night bar scene where the heartbroken and rejected dwell isn’t quite as enigmatic as I would have hoped.

“You’re leaving?”


“All you had was water.”


“Then what was the point?”

“You tell me.”

The night air is colder than it was before, and I was right, it is lighter out here than it is in there. But I don’t really care. I walk.

Tags: writing

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