Naked
This is his ritual. He has gone through it so many times, he knows every thought, every emotion before he thinks or feels it. Five minutes in the car, hands on the steering wheel, gaze locked with his own familiar blue eyes in the rear-view mirror. Deep breath. There's a bar down the street. Apprehension.
Slow walk, head hung low, avoiding eye contact with anyone who might cross his path, because if they look into his eyes, they'll know. They'll see what he is, where's his going. They'll see how much he'd rather be holding an ice cold bottle in his hand. Shame.
A pause at the door, hand on cold metal. Another deep breath. He steadies himself for what is to follow. The watching, the averted eyes. The muted smiles, the smell of shame and guilt. He convinces himself that this is the right thing to do, he needs this. He convinces himself that no one will notice him, but he knows that it's not true. Inside, everyone examines, analyses, judges. Fear.
He does it too. Sitting now, his eyes travel around the small circle. The nervous foot tapping indicates the few that have slipped. Sympathy.
And then it begins. Admissions, bragging, confections. Applause, murmurs, pats on the back. He stands to the sound of plastic scrapping against worn wood. All eyes are on him now, and he knows that they can see all his deep, dark secrets. They can see into his soul, unmasking the real him he fights so hard to disguise. He's naked, every detail, every flaw, on display, for all to see. The attention's on him, and he hates it. He's suddenly very aware of the door behind him. He can just turn around and leave. There's a bar down the street, with an ice cold bottle waiting for him. He can, but he doesn't. In here, there is no joking around, no changing the subject, no denying the problem. It's his turn.
Six months, thirteen days.
Pride.