A drink.

Sometimes the bar closes and things get quiet in an ambient sort of way. The generator still hums and the airflow catches the loose ends of your skin and drags across it. Otherwise, you can’t hear much except the breathing of an empty space.

This is the time I have a drink. I turn off the screens and the jukebox gets unplugged. I sit at the bar and I pour myself something strong. It changes night to night, but I like to stick the the cask strength stuff.

I take my time. Pour the glass and put the bottle down. The light twinkles through the whisky and let what is in the glass come to a rest and really figure out what it is meant to be. In this time, I remember. Mostly, terrible things and heartbreak, but sometimes the good times.

I do not let my mind wander to the extremes of either end for in both places are memories I cannot bear to keep in my mind. In one direction, the road that leads to a blood spattered plas-steel corridor, in the other, Her. Both are far too lovely and terrible and if I get too close to those memories I have the whisky. I drink it and it keeps them at bay and I can wander through the memories that are closer to center.

Time becomes hazy and even further from absolute. Sometimes, the whisky is gone in a few minutes and merits a refill. Other times…

Sweet elixir, help me to remember and forget in the same swallow.