Conversations (Musings of a Barkeep)
Note: Work of fiction. Does not correspond to real life, et cetera, et cetera.
I was a barkeeper.
23 years were how long I worked there. The dim lights, the chipped wooden countertop. The alcohol rack, the glasses. My little home.
What kept me there, you ask.
The conversations. The people who left bits of their lives in mine as they entered and left through the heavy wooden door.
Joy. Sadness. Doubt. Fear. Fury. Hate. Contentment. Love.
I had always thought that I am the luckiest person to have experienced so many colors just by standing behind the line, only at the cost of providing my customers with service and good drinks.
But now I longer work there.
Still, the conversations linger in my head like ghosts, and it doesn't seem like they're leaving anytime soon. And they've been screaming in my head for days, now.
Write, they say.
Preserve us, they say.
They made me who I am, anyway.
But I shall try to keep my opinions removed from them, as subjectivity is the bane of accurate reiteration. In effort of doing so, I will reduce narration to nil unless needed. I hope memory serves me well and allows me to get as close as possible to the words and sentences I heard.
Without further ado, here it is.
Cover by @alariclocke <3