Routine
It's always like this. A smoky bar, a glass of whiskey I barely touched, and a pack of cigarettes that were running out before 9 o'clock. I always sit at the corner of the bar, away from the noise, near the wall, it looks like I have my world. This was my safe spot—if you could call a rundown dive bar on the edge of nowhere safe.
“Same drink?” asked Gus, the bartender who looked like he hadn’t smiled in decades.
I just nod. I don't drink alcohol; I just need something to hold, something to make me look busy so no one will come near me. People respected the unspoken rule of solitude here. Mostly.
I pulled out another cigarette, the lighter clicking in the stillness of my little corner. The first inhale always hit differently, like a temporary bandaid to whatever was damaged inside me. Smoke filled my lungs, and then the air around me blended with the dim, yellow light of the bar. Felt like I was imprisoned in an old and dirty snow globe, with no escape.
In front of me, there's a mirror behind the bar, reflecting the tired faces of the regulars. I caught my reflection, and as usual, I barely recognized myself. Hollow eyes, hair that looks like I didn't comb these past few days, and scorching arms that look like I weigh the world
“Arden,” called Gus while putting the glass in front of me. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I answered, even though it's not the truth. Who will be asking for a follow-up in a place like this?
The chatter of other customers filled the air, but it seemed like everything was background noise. My mind was elsewhere, lost in the haze of nicotine and memories I didn’t want to revisit. I can't count the times that I think that it's better if I disappear. But I'm still here. Maybe this bar, this cycle, was my punishment—or my sanctuary.
The bar door opened, letting in a gust of cool night air. I didn’t look up. I'm not interested in who is the newcomer. They’d just be another lost soul looking for the same escape.
But there's something different on the sound of the steps. Slow. Deliberate. It stopped right next to me, and I felt the presence of someone standing too close for comfort.
“Arden, right?”
I turned my head, startled at hearing my name from a stranger. He looked... out of place. Well-dressed but not flashy, with sharp features and eyes that looked like they saw too much.
“Who are you?” I asked, my voice edged with suspicion.
“Someone who’s been noticing you for a while,” he said, his tone calm, almost casual.
“Noticing? Why? What do you need?”
Instead of answering, he slid into the stool beside me, as if he belonged there. “You’ve got a routine,” he continued. “This bar, that corner, those cigarettes. You’re predictable.”
“If I'm predictable, why would I notice you?” I snapped, flicking the ash from my cigarette.
“Maybe because you’re tired of being invisible.”
His words hit harder than they should have. Who is this? Why did it feel like he’d been reading pages of my life I hadn’t shown anyone?
“Look,” I said, leaning back, trying to sound tougher than I felt. “I don't what you are on, but I’m not interested.”
He smirked, lighting a cigarette of his own. “We’ll see.”
And just like that, he stayed. I didn’t ask him to, and he didn’t ask for permission. I didn’t know what he wanted, but for the first time in years, someone had disrupted the monotony.
And I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing—or a disaster waiting to happen.
