27

One

I remember the day I met him like it was yesterday. The bar was packed; people had just finished work and the nights football match was illuminating the projector. I was working my ass off to say the least. I could barely pay my rent in the shitty town I lived in, so working six nights a week was essential to make ends meet.
It was so loud in the crowded room that I barely heard the bell above the door chime as someone new came in. Glancing over from where I was pouring beers, I saw a young man stumble in. His face was unshaven and his blonde hair stuck to his sweaty face. Sliding into a bar stool, he slumped over before mumbling "Just a beer, please."

I sighed. It wasn't unusual for alcoholics to come and spend their entire day here, but this man looked different. He looked hurt, broken even. I could feel the pain in his voice through the four monotone words he had spoken, a silent cry of heartache.

"You sure mate?" I questioned. "I've got some panadol in my bag if you'd rather that and some water?" I knew from prior experience that I wasn't supposed to argue with a customer, especially not a drunk one, but something about this guy pushed me to do it anyway.
He raised his head slightly, his bloodshot eyes meeting mine for a split second, before he sighed heavily.
"Sure," he smiled, sitting up slowly and resting his face against the palms of his hands. The man wore a pinky ring, engraved with something illegible from such a distance. I smiled as I filled a glass with water and ice before sliding it across the bar and reaching under the counter to my bag, retrieving the medicine. His sweaty palm was outstretched as I stood back up, and as I placed the pills in his hand, he smiled at me. This time his smile seemed genuine, a dimple even appearing on his cheek. "Thanks," he mumbled. "I'm Luke."