Smoke seemed to fill every inch of the dimly lit music hall. People were all around, talking and laughing, but the familiar feeling of isolation—of loneliness—had already crept its way back in that night, as it always seemed to in these dark haunts.
He coughed, the smoke finally catching the back of his throat, and took a long sip of the gin someone had poured for him. It tasted cheap, and of nights long past.
One more sip and the glass was empty. They went down too easily, these days.
Standing, he could feel his muscles ache in protest. He was getting too old for this. Too old to be up on a stage, night after night, pretending it was still all right. With a sigh, motioning for the barkeep, he sat back down. One more and then it was time to go.
Perhaps it really was time. Time for something new. A change from the gin soaked evenings spent in pubs almost as dark as the places his mind seemed to travel to every night. And that ad in the paper had looked interesting: a position as first footman in a great country house. It seemed a rather enticing prospect.
After all, he could not be a Cheerful Charlie forever.
