Sitting here, I watch as the dust filters down through dim lighting, just barely illuminating the entirety of the establishment. Across from me a strange man drowns his sorrows in whiskey, I can smell it and it soothes me. As swanky as this place could be, there is a deadness here, a gravity that oppresses the soul, any soul. The round cherry oak table is old, I pick at the laminate that keeps it halfway usable in its age. Starring out the window, even my view of the world alters from inside the glass. I want to feel the sun, but all I can do is count the clouds, and listen...Listen to the babbling drunkard.
From our distance, I sit, feeling his hot breath as he imbibes a new drink of the same liquor. My water sits edge side sweating. Abruptly, he stands and spews some piece of his hatred toward something and then he crashes back again to his seat, and continues on the speech of a vitreous regret. Startled once more, his head slams against the table, sending my glass of water off the edge, it shatters into a millions little pieces. The water splashes everywhere, and it reminds me of the tears I think he wants to cry but can't. It was a terrible feeling not have release.
"Why did I call you" he repeats with a fervent forgetfulness only a drunk could manage to attain. To be honest, Avery didn't know what to do, or to say to answer, only because he wasn't sure. Would him answering with another question be gasoline to the obvious fire that burned so savagely within him? There was a chance that it would, but alas the only answer he could give.
"Yeah. That's me. The head smasher as you said. But I don't know why you called me. You just told me to meet you, and I did. Was there something you needed my help with?" Trying to lead him to an answer, I prayed that it would be consolation to whatever ailed him.