Eminence (Wattpad Edition)

Note 1 - The 1975 Ritz Bar and a Motel Key

He had taken the subway from Auburn Station, just a short walk from his office. His new favorite, The 1975 Ritz Bar—an underground lounge steeped in late 60s futurism, campy colors, and obscure furniture that was straight out of a dream. Peaking into the karaoke rooms, you'd find bubble couches that lined the walls instead of booths, their dark olive color which clashed against the taupe brown walls, and was accented with a harvest gold trim. What danced along the air waves were soft synths and melodic drums pacing the rhythm for the electric guitar solo from Pink Floyd's 'Shine On You Crazy Diamond', as it mixed in with the chatter of the patrons; Sipping cocktails, and soaking in the nostalgia. The atmosphere felt otherworldly, as the rooms glowed under the fluorescent lights above.

It wasn't the type of place you'd find him in. But then again, that's why he was there in the first place. No one would think of this when they think of him, if they did think of him. To hide in plain sight as the saying goes. Not that he had anyone to hide from. Anymore. Still, the thought amused him enough to follow it.

Warren walked past faded posters of 70s culture heartthrobs, glam rock icons and cult films that crowded the walls as he headed toward the restroom. He closed the door behind him with a soft click and locked it. The light buzzed faintly overhead, as he moved toward the mirror and lifted his gaze.

The face looking back at him felt unrecognizable—tired eyes ringed with shadows, jaw set like stone, the expression he wore at the funeral. It was a version of him that he met only recently. There were still some glints of who he once was but only for a second and then never again. Six months later, the sadness hadn't left, It just got quieter. More practiced. Like grief had become habitual.

He leaned closer, studying the faint lines forming under his eyes, the weight in his brow. Everything looked heavier now. Not just his face, but the way he carried it.

He reached up and combed his fingers through his hair, more from ritual than vanity. "You're still here" he uttered to his reflection—not as a comfort, but like a challenge instead. He let his hand fall and exhaled slowly, as though releasing the air from his lungs could take some weight with it.

On the counter, his fingertips brushed against the edge of the sink—cold, off. He used to hate how sterile public restrooms felt. Now he welcomed it. At least nothing here reminded him of home.

With one last glance, he turned from the mirror, unlocked the door, and stepped back into the world as if nothing happened.

At the bar, he pulled out a stool and waved down the bartender who greeted him unenthusiastically. Either he wasn't pretending to enjoy working tonight, or he simply didn't like Warren. It was hard to tell, but he still replied politely.

"Starting a tab?" The bartender didn't even look at him.

"Yes. Can I get an Old Fashioned?"

"The usual... Right, coming right up." And he walked off with Warren's card.

Their conversation was always the same, it was muscle memory at this point.

Warren rested his head on his fist, leaning forward slightly over the bar. It was always strange how a loud place could feel so silent. The noise pressed in around him but never touched. Even the people closest to him felt distant, their voices bent towards the music. His presence was both unimpactful and intentionally avoided. They leaned closer to each other as if to say their intimacy had no room for him.

"You don't look well..." a voice said to him.

"I suppose I'm not well." Warren replied. He didn't bother to look, he also wasn't particularly interested in conversation with anyone. He only liked the idea of it. Company in theory, not in fact.