Mr. Beene

He shuffles in like he’s walking on flypaper each step sticks on the carpet and only with laborious effort can he heave his weight forward and manage yet another. When finally he sits down he cranks his neck over his shoulder and with the lifting of an eyebrow signals the usual to the bartender: a double scotch on the rocks. As the minutes pass into oblivion the skin hanging from his bones eyes glazed, hands trembling some wasted satisfaction an elusive pleasure creeps into the hollows of his face curling uncomfortably in a comatose smile the years of pain obliterated in the dull, unconscious vacancy of a half-empty glass. (Previously published in The Hold, Jan 2005)