The Last Note

The Waiting

The bar wasn't a place you found by accident. It was a place you ended up. Tucked into a city block that time had chewed on and spat out, it was a mausoleum with a pulse. The air, thick with the ghosts of a thousand cigarettes and spilled secrets, hung heavy. You didn’t just breathe it; you wore it.

I was at the bar, as always, letting the last of the daylight die outside. The whiskey in my glass was cheap, but it burned honestly. It was my third, or maybe my fourth. Counting was a habit I’d worked hard to forget. Behind the counter, the bartender moved with the slow, deliberate grace of a man who’d seen every kind of trouble walk through his door and knew none of it was personal. He polished a glass already clean, his eyes on nothing.

The piano player in the corner wasn't playing music. He performed an autopsy on a melody; each note a careful incision. He coaxed a sad, lonely sound from the ivory, a tune for last calls and long goodbyes. It was the only sound in the room, besides the hum of the neon sign outside bleeding through the grimy window.