The ice cubes start to shrink and saturate the whiskey’s warmth while Samuel presses the edge of a glass to his chapped lips. He dwells on dying promises before he tosses his head back and drinks to the past, even if only for a few hours. He beckons the bartender, Belle, over to his familiar corner of the bar. She notices the redness of his somber, swollen eyes and, without hesitation, brings him a brown bottle and a small sack of ice.
“I’ll just put it on your tab, Sammy. Looks like you’re gonna be here awhile” she says, offering moral support in the form on a gentle pat on his shoulder.
Before taking another drink, Samuel stops and inhales the stale scent of mildew and Lysol and is overcome with a brief moment of relaxation. The display lights are flickering, and the neon Budweiser sign behind the bar has burned out. His favorite bar stool is held together with nails and duct tape. This dingy, dump of a dive is his only escape from the stinging screams of a night gone straight down the toilet and into the sewers of infidelity.
The Follies of a Postmodern Xennial 