"You look lost."
The words are matter-of-fact and he eyes the speaker suspiciously. She's pretty, he supposes. Long legs and long hair, a thin frame and big, brown eyes; he'd have taken her home in a life before now. He'd have lied to her and smiled and winked and forgotten her name the second it left her lips. Now, he just scoffs and sips his scotch.
"You could say that," he says more to the glass than to her. His eyes ache.
"Broken heart?" She sits down on the creaky stool beside his and leans her elbows on the bar. She gestures through the smoky din for a drink as he smiles wryly. It hurts his face.
"You could say that, too."
She doesn't look at him but scans the glass shelves of assorted alcohol with her eyes. She taps her neatly trimmed nails on the scratched wood of the bar until her beer comes, frothy and cold. He feels like crying, but he's beyond that.
"She leave you?" She's talking to a chip in her nail but he assumes the question is directed at him. He scoffs again and it feels like gagging.
Draining his glass, he signals the bartender for another; a fourth. He rubs his eye with the heel of his hand. "No."
The woman stays silent and he wonders how people can do that; how people can really want to know other people's pain. She sips her beer and his insides twist. It wouldn't kill him to share a little. God knows he hasn't talked about it, hasn't seen anyone since it happened.
He sighs as the bartender exchanges his empty tumbler for one with three fingers of brown liquid. He swallows the lump in his throat that is tugging at him, reminding him that he's weak and says "I never had her to begin with."
He chances a glance at the woman beside him. Her eyes are cast down and he can't help but think that she's familiar with this kind of hurt. Her long eyelashes brush her cheeks for a moment. She nods.
"I didn't deserve her anyway," he attempts a dismissive tone but it comes out pathetic and sad.
"She know you love her this way?"
He notes a ghost of a southern drawl in her tone and for once his mind doesn't alphabetize the states or remind him of the fact that he's only missing Alabama on his list of conquests.
He nods and that lump isn't fading and his eyes feel hot and scratchy. He takes a long, shaky breath but doesn't feel any more stable. The alcohol isn't numbing him like it should and this woman knows him somehow.
"Got shot down, huh?"
He continues to nod and stares at his lap as unbidden tears escape his tired blue eyes. He wants to run as far away as possible, but he feels glued to his seat; to his empty, lonely life. He misses his friends. He misses her. His chest tightens and he doesn't bother to stop the tears dripping from his nose onto the wrinkled fabric of his suit.
"So end of story, huh? Loved and lost. What's the plan now?"
She's direct but gentle and he shrugs his shoulders. They feel heavier than he remembers. This woman reminds him of someone he can't quite place and he doesn't care enough to try. Her voice is gravelly and soft.
"You could always give it another shot," she says, and it's honest, not patronizing. He wipes his eyes and looks at her. She's still watching the glass shelves and he rolls his glass between his palms with dexterity brought on by years of sleight of hand.
There's a long pause before she drains her pint and turns to face him, her brown eyes stunning him somewhat. "Hell, what have you got to lose?"
She reaches over and squeezes his bare wrist below his turned-up sleeve. His skin tingles where she'd touched him as she walks out the door and he watches her. In another life he would have been leaving with her, seeing if she made him tingle anywhere else.
Now, though, he abandons his fourth drink, leaving neatly folded bills on the bar, and straightens himself up. He buttons his cuffs and slips his jacket on, loosening his tie and folding it into his pocket. In his head rings the answer to the woman's question: nothing. I've got nothing left to lose.
He swallows hard as he leaves the bar, walking out into the world to try one more time.
