Stories

"Good evening," the barkeeper murmured. Of course, the stranger, his thick rubber soles clunking against the wood panel floor of the bar, didn't answer. They never did. He merely shook the rain from his overcoat and hung it on the wall. Seen through the lustre of upturned glass, the water flowed backwards through the two heavy oak doors and back out to the street that cradled his little roadhouse. Cars raced, heedless of the endless downpour, tracing path after path across the tired asphalt.

He liked to think of his tavern as nothing special. In truth, it was one of the only places in the city where you could hear yourself breathe. The patrons who spun their tales of woe to the smokey incandescent haze could leave feeling better for the company of the stillness, finding a kind of communal isolation behind the two heavy oak doors and the polished bottles of liquor, bar and bartender silent as the rain-bearing clouds.

"Perhaps that's simply because they never bother to speak..." mused the barkeeper, studying the dirt that streaked the stranger's untied boots and the trembling lattice of raindrops weaved upon his shirt. "No matter. They all tell the same story anyway. Broken hearts and a callous world." He shrugged. "I've got the whole thing memorized."

So why, then, did his reflection in the counter's black glass look so cold?

He broke from his thoughts as he noticed the stranger was still standing in the doorway.

"Sir...?"

The man started, stuffing his gloves in his rear coat pocket. "Sorry. You looked so focused, and I didn't wish to interrupt..." The bartender stared as the stranger swayed boot to boot, fidgeting awkwardly.

"Please, have a seat." The stranger sighed and rubbed his neck for a moment, then collapsed into the stool closest the door. The rain drained from his short auburn hair and tumbled atop the mutely receiving maple floor. "What can I get for you?"

He hung still for a few heartbeats longer, then swung himself forward to the counter.

"I'd like some milk."

"...Milk?" Now it was the barkeeper's turn to pause. "You... You do know that this is a bar, right?"

"Sorry. It's just... been a long day." The stranger sagged and let slip a sigh. "Please?"

"Of course... One moment." The barkeeper paced hesitantly to the end of the counter, where, from a quiet, disused fridge, he pulled out the unopened carton and emptied the contents into a mug.

"Here you are, sir..." He watched with incredulity as the stranger upturned the entire volume in a series of fluid gulps, leaving behind only a few scattered droplets and a milk mustache. He hummed contentedly, oblivious to his new facial accessory.

"Perfect. Now, to pay... What?"

For a moment, the stranger thought that the bartender was crying. To his surprise, though, he was trying desperately not to laugh.

"Nothing... nothing. It's on the house."

"Really?" The barkeeper nodded. "Thank you!" The stranger rose, attempting to clean the droplets of milk he scattered, smearing them further before giving up all together. "Well then..." he jogged through the heavy oak doors, overcoat still wet, shoes still untied, into the rain. "Have a good evening!" His voice still echoed as the doors fell together.

The bartender stood for a moment longer, surveying mess the stranger left. A moist ring still marked where, amidst the scattered milk, the mug had once rested. Dirty bootmarks puddled into one, and the two heavy oak doors lay slightly ajar.

"Same old story, huh?"

He left the mess, packed his things, and walked into the rain.