Johnnie Walker

C-clink. The sound of ice hitting the bottom of a shallow glass.  My eyes lifted up from my own glass and followed the sound, bringing me to the man sitting a stool away from me. I smirked. I was sure there was an unwritten rule somewhere that when two men are alone they have to be at least a foot apart. A man can’t sit next to another man, just as a man can’t take the open urinal in between two other guys. I watched as the bartender turned around to grab Johnnie walker. My mouth went dry as the liquid dove into the glass- it was as if I was watching my own version of the Olympic diving competition, and I’ll be damned that Johnnie Walker got a perfect 10.

            I kept watching the man. He looked as if he was fifteen. A hard fifteen. The creases by his temples were cold and worn. His lips were chapped so badly, it looked like they were scraped with razorblades. The tops of his ears were hidden by the faded sunflower color of his hair. “Gawking is for car accidents.” I coughed, taken aback by the sheer acknowledgement of my presence, and mustered up a response. “What?”

 

            He scoffed in a way that told me I had pissed him off. Overstepped my boundaries even. I turned back to my drink and wrapped my hand around it. I watched the ice slowly dissolve as I felt myself growing smaller. How could a simple interaction make me feel so insignificant? 

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