The bottle opener.
He looked deep down into his empty glass. Whisky had been there, however there was nothing left of it in liquid form. The only reminiscence of it was the smoky, earthy smell of it. He dug his nose into the glass and inhaled.
Meadows came to his mind, sheep just biting grass in windy atmosphere, cliffs dangerously greeting the sea. Big waves crushing against the harbour where the whisky barrels were loaded.
Still, there he was, sitting alone. In his bar. Same people, same bartender. The one woman having her chin in her hand, comforting herself with the sturdiness of the bar. He was looking around, no wind, no sheeps. It was all just an illusion, drinking that little dram of finely curated nectar of the gods.
He leaves his seat at the smoky bar, leaving behind the people around him. But somehow, there, standing on the street, he felt lost. Where would he go in this state between drunkenness, pettiness and no sense of belonging. When did he start being in this state? Why did he enjoy staying in it?
“Well there is consolidation in sombreness. Being tender with yourself, trying to cope with your thoughts. Maybe there is something in between two drinks. Maybe just take a step back, see how you had some good times there, with the guy who always talks about his collection of typewriters, the one telling that he has been a famous fighter pilot when it still mattered, the woman who was (according to her) the most famous classic car thief in the city.
So here you are, reading his story. And maybe, just maybe, you have become interested in his path. So, where do I begin, you may ask.
Well, grab yourself a drink and all you need is, well, a bottle opener.