We have such difficulty never hearing the ending of stories that aren't ours, never satisfied with a story half told.
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This collection contains segments of stories from those we observe and yet never truly come to know despite our mind needing t...
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The Bar on the West Side, a microcosm for our world. Tables of friends, enemies, and lovers each night their tales unfurl.
Proclamations and hazes of Malbec lips can never escape the magnetic force of fate. The young couple in the booth, parched for one another. In vino veritas, I shake my head, the only way to translate.
Distracted eyes from the man at the bar, frosting focused on a golden pair, I refill his drink at his request, pure vodka. I notice the heart fragments that lay beneath his chair.
To the far left sits a solitary, drinker of whiskey old, far deep in a life changing conversation. His knuckles turn transparent, matching his face, leaving because it's evident he's in the wrong location.
The two girls who sang of love and dreams, now huddle close on an armchair, intertwined. The gin smile doesn't quite reach one's eyes, and the other misplaced in her friend's mind.
Each one of them tells half a story. I piece together blanks with emotion they're willing to share. Humans are only ever willing to bare half of their hearts. Every narrative plot important, from Malbec to armchair.
I lock up tonight wondering if their stories end happily or not. But as the bartender it's extremely common, to only see half a plot.
