Playing Brave

*

A young man sat in a bar one November's night. It was dark and dreary, no different to the cold winter surrounding it. The yellow lights were dim, bright enough for one to know that the bar was deserted for the night, with glasses strewn all over the tables from the previously loud and crowded room. The men on a stag do went home to their wives, the underage teenagers were dragged out by their friends and the football fans left cheering from a successful game. It was empty, except for the boy who sat at the bar facing the bartender, who was cleaning the cups with the towel lying over his shoulder. The bartender was used to this, the young man had been coming to the bar consistently over the past few months, and saying the exact same thing.

"Don't ever fall in love," he told the bartender while slurring his words. His eyes were reddened and dark with fatigue, and his curly brown hair lay flat as he dropped his head forward. The bartender did not move or retreat from washing the glasses, only acknowledging the boy's comment by lifting his eyes slightly to look at him.

"'Cause your heart," he started while putting his hand on his chest, "Will get broken." He finished as he dropped his hand around his whiskey-filled glass. He didn't take his eyes off the bartender as he lifted the glass up to his trembling lips, and without a moment of hesitation downed the contents of the glass. The boy screwed up his face as he felt the liquid burn his throat on the way down. He slammed his glass on the table, sliding it towards the bartender. The bartender carelessly retrieved up the glass and filled it with more whiskey, not responding to the boy.

"She will leave you," he began again, hiccuping in between. "She will break your heart and leave you." He pointed at the bartender before sloppily letting his hand fall back in the table. His hands grasped around his newly-filled glass as he stared at the wooden bar in front of him. "She left me," he almost whispered, before once again drinking some of the whiskey. The bartender did not show emotion, not did he flinch or try to comfort the boy.

Instead he stared at him. He stared as the boy took another swig of his drink, and it was only then when the bartender noticed how young he was. His brown eyes, now dull and dark, should have been bright like someone of his age; eyes filled with hope and a long life ahead, that should have been innocent and had yet lots to see. His curly hair seemed to have lost its young shine and volume, and was dry and thin, like a man decades older than himself. His body seemed frail and delicate, like that of a man who spent years living an active life, and was slowly moving away from its youth. The only thing that gave him away, were the dimples indented on either of his cheeks. They showed whenever he talked, and looked odd on the boy's sunken face.

What had got the bartender's attention the most was the way he talked. He spoke as if he were an old man who had lived his full life, and had seen his fair share of life. He spoke like a wise man who had lost the hope in his eyes long ago because he had seen too much of the world to be able to keep it. It was as if he had grown up way past his years, and had been through more than an average man would have who was three times his age. It was an odd experience, as the boy could have been no older than twenty or so. The bartender garnered an unlikely respect for him, like you do with those older and wiser than yourself. Surprisingly, it didn't sound like a schoolboy crush that he had been dumped by like it should have. It seemed to be engraved with real pain and terrible misfortune.

Now, here he was drowning his body in alcohol opposite a curious bartender.

The bartender honestly thought he had seen everything. Being thirty two years old and spending eight of them working in a bar, he had come across many strange people. He never took notice or interest. However, when the young boy with the messy hair walked in, he felt sad for him. He recognised the same child like features from when he was his age. The difference was that the bartender had had a fairly normal life, and the only signs of his ageing were the laugh lines around his eyes. The boy didn't have any laugh lines, only a deep frown that seemed to always be set in his face. The boy stared at his glass with furrowed eyebrows in deep thought, and the bartender couldn't help but take interest in his actions.

"She's gone," the boy rasped, not taking his eyes off the glass. His voice cracked, and those two words said a lot more about the boy than any other action or word he had previously said. The words were thick with emotion, and the bartender almost wanted to comfort the boy. He had seen many men and boys come into the bar and stumble out when trying to get over an ex-wife or girlfriend, but this was different. He wasn't particularly angry like the others were; he was sad. The boy blinked and swallowed, while trying to hold back tears. Nevertheless, one small droplet made its way down his face, as he did not move or try to wipe it away. He just let it out as if it was not there.

Suddenly, the boy inhaled a large breath while blinking out the moisture in his eyes and turned to face the bartender. The bartender simply stood stationary, with his brows knotted together in a calculating expression. This did not seem to affect the boy much, and he pushed the glass towards the bartender. The bartender looked at the glass, and looked back at the boy, who was once again looking at the wooden surface of the bar towards him. He moved his fingers round the surface, tracing the patterns of the rings that the glasses had made throughout the night. The bartender sighed and took the glass, putting it down behind the bar, and spoke to the boy for the first time that night.

"Maybe you should go home," he suggested, leaning his hands on the bar in front of the boy. It was not friendly, nor was it demanding and patronising. The boy did not look up or move, but simply continued to trace the patterns of the rings. It was as if he hadn't heard the bartender as he did not protest or get up to leave. The bartender retreated and proceeded to washing his glass, while the running tap created a harsh sound against the soft silence. He did not take his eyes off the boy for a second, not wanting to miss any of his actions. The boy was intriguing to him, and he found himself wanting to know more. Before he could speak, the boy had beat him to it.

"Why couldn't it have been me?" His rhetorical question echoed off the walls of he bar, despite it only being quiet. The bartender imperceptibly leaned forward a bit more, with a resounding question in his mind. He wanted to ask the boy what had happened, but he couldn't seem to get the words out. The boy seemed to hold the weight of the world on his shoulders, yet nothing mattered to him. It reminded the bartender of a time when he was a teenager, and he had lost his mother to lung cancer. He remembered that he had felt like he had to grow up, like the little things that he would get angry or annoyed at didn't matter. Everything else didn't matter, because his mothers death would change everything anyway. That was when he recognised himself in the boy in front of him. Wanting all the pain to go away so you try to numb it or drown it out. He also knew that trying to drown out the pain with alcohol wasn't the right thing to do. He knew that once the alcohol was out of his system, what would he do then? It was only a temporary fix, and it didn't make anything any better.

However, the bartender felt that it was not his place to consult the boy of this. It was something that he needed to figure out on his own. But he also wanted to be something that he had never had when his mother had passed: somebody to talk to. He had never been particularly close to his father and so chose to bottle everything up. He had wondered if he would b a bartender today if it wasn't for his lack of motivation and enthusiasm for everything. Nothing seemed to spark his interest after his mother died. When he looked at the broken boy in front of him, he felt sad to know that the boy was possibly going in the same direction. So he asked a question; one that wasn't particularly meaningful or complicated but on that would show the boy he understood.

"What was her name?"

The boy's head shot up fast and his brown eyes met the bartender's own. Not one said a word to the other but they both knew. The boy knew at that moment that the bartender did not pity or sympathise with him, but understood. It shocked the young man; many people had given their condolences and apologies. All had inflicted pity on the boy but not one had understood. He was sick of the pity; although it was kind, he didn't need or want it. All this time he had wanted to someone to understand, an it was refreshing for him. However, as the bartender's question sunk in, he looked back down at the bar. He didn't want to say her name but he felt like he had to. It was almost as if she was a big secret that he had and needed to get out. But he knew if he said her name, it would all be real. He would have to confront what he already knew. Nevertheless, a spout of confidence grew up, and her name flew off his lips naturally, just like it was a habit to him.

"Maggie," he began, his voice so hoarse that it barely came out as more than a whisper.

"Her name was Maggie."