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The dimly lit lights kept flickering over his head until it finally went out, quick and mean. Leon never bothered checking it out, instead he continued downing an almost empty beer clutched tightly in his hand. If he even noticed the light at all, was what prompted the attending bartender to glance at him sitting in a secluded corner of the counter.
What a nightmare before Christmas for anyone witnessing that very sight. The man on the other side of the counter thought as he tried to go on with his shift, high on his guard at the familiar face of Leon, proactively drowning himself in alcohol.
The run down pub had several customers already, people came and went—by groups or themselves—but mostly with company, probably to celebrate the holidays in their own ways.
It’s six hours before Christmas. Leon is by himself, on vacation, deciding to pass the remaining time at a local pub, mind racing with a train of thoughts trying to outlast the influence of the liquor.
Six lonely years for Leon living only with the constant companion of his alcohol, the job he was long over due for, and the cold persistently reminding him of being alone for every holiday there is.
How long has he been sitting there? Time itself has given up on him, walked past him, outrun him.
The man that he is at the present lost track of the minutes, delving through the montage of the past few years. Memories after memories, old feelings of when he was younger ragingly resurfacing, and multiple ‘what ifs’ that never fails to catch up every night, never even tried to be forsaken just for tonight.
Driven by the overwhelming rush of emotions, Leon emptied the bottle of beer only for it to be already deserted. “Story of my life,” he whispers, slamming the bottle on the counter, earning a stare from the bartender.
Leon nods curtly at the man, busying himself with a towel, cleaning the surface of the counter. The man stood on business by redirecting his focus on the task, yet somewhat bewildered to see someone with a line of empty beers be able to get himself together. He doesn’t know whether to be amused or concerned at Leon, who scoffed, catching his reaction like it was a usual reaction from everyone who has seen him in this blunt rotation of numerous beers, whiskey and vodka, rum with more bite than he expected.
Searching for his wallets and bike keys inside the pocket of his signature black leather jacket, he gestured the perceptive bartender to take his fee, his finger fumbling over his mess of a wallet containing every paper but a dollar, crumpled receipts of old groceries from months ago and sticky notes.
“Great,” he mumbled under his breath, shaking his head in disappointment and frustration. He could sense the intensity of the bartender’s gaze prepared to kick his ass overboard.
Should’ve checked for enough cash before succumbing to complete self cognitive dissonance.
Could’ve cleaned his wallet instead.
So, he wouldn’t have to be hit of another six ceaseless years of a pressing weight of deep rooted penitence.