BB Grey–musings

The bartender polishes a glass that’ll never be clean – appropriate. I’m on my third bourbon, neat, the kind that burns like regret. Sully Erna’s growling through the speakers about devils and crossroads, which feels about right.

Another night unraveling at the seams. You’d think by now I’d have learned – the world doesn’t give second acts, just recycled tragedies with cheaper liquor. The smoke curls around my fingers like the ghost of every bad decision I’ve ever made.

That woman in the corner – the one in pink – keeps glancing over like I’m some wounded animal. She’s not wrong. We’re all just roadkill waiting for the cosmic semi to finish the job. I raise my glass to her. She looks away. Smart girl.

The mirror behind the bottles shows a man who might have been somebody, once. Now? Just another barfly philosophizing with a whiskey slur. The lines on my face aren’t wisdom – they’re erosion. Life’s a fucking tide, and I’m just sand.

“Cheer up,” the bartender lies, sliding me another. As if joy’s something you can order like well whiskey. The truth? I’m tired of my own company but can’t stand anyone else’s. The great joke – we’re all alone together in this godforsaken carnival.

Sully hits the chorus – something about burning bridges. I laugh until it turns to coughing. My lungs rattle like dice in a cup. What’s left to gamble with? My dignity left town years ago with that redhead from Toledo.

The ice melts in my glass. Time’s up. Again. Always. I’ll pay my tab, stumble into the night, and do this all again tomorrow. Because what else is there?

We don’t drink to remember. We don’t drink to forget. We drink because the glass is closer than God.

Last call for the living dead.

[Glass clinks. Lights flicker. The jukebox plays on.]