Late Night
The bar was dim, soaked in stale light and old music that nobody really listened to anymore. Smoke hung in the air like it had given up on leaving. A middle-aged man sat at the counter, shoulders slumped, staring into his beer as if it were a confession booth.
A university student took the stool next to him. A girl. Backpack at her feet, coat still on, eyes drifting, not shy, just tired. Lost in a quiet, dangerous way.
The man didn’t turn his head.
“You think too much,” he said. “When someone thinks that much, they’re either in love or completely fucking lost.”
She let out a short breath that almost counted as a laugh.
“Relationships,” she said. “Human nature. Everyone acts like they know what’s right.”
He took a long sip.
“Well, kid… everybody believes they’re angels when it comes to ethics, especially in relationships. Truth is, we’re not. We’re driven by impulses, evolutionary urges we like to dress up with fancy words. We build skyscrapers, yeah, but we’re still slaves to the same shit.”
He set the glass down.
“They call it modernity. It’s bullshit. Modernity is staying in the present. Being okay with what you have. But we—” he smirked, “—we’re demons. Always hunting for better. Better partners. Better scenes. Better everything. That’s why people cheat. Not because they’re evil—because they can’t stop wanting more.”
She watched the condensation slide down her glass.
“So what am I supposed to do?” she asked.
“Fuck it,” he said. “Learn to be happy with what you’ve got. Stay in the present. Enjoy in the present. Suffer in the present. Let the pain hit, then let it go. Keep your mind busy with one thing at a time. That’s the only decent advice there is.”
He lit a cigarette, hands calm from repetition, not peace.
“And don’t get mad at people who are always looking for better. They’re just lost. You can’t pull anyone into the present. Let them wander in chaos.”
The bartender came over. The man raised two fingers.
“Also,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “drink beer. A lot. Doesn’t fix life, but it lowers the volume.”
She took her glass, nodded once.
“Thanks,” she said.
He finally looked at her. His eyes were tired, not kind, not cruel—just honest.
“Don’t thank me,” he said. “Nobody saves anyone in bars like this. We just sit next to each other and admit we’re alone.”
They clinked glasses.
For a moment, the bar felt lighter.
Not because hope walked in
but because nobody lied.
