A Solitary Drink

It was in the way he drank.  Time was not in short supply for this gentleman who sipped at his glass and studied the wall ahead for things to contemplate. A solitary figure in a near empty bar. An afternoon drinker, but not a drunkard. Just a man trying to remember pleasure, and those days when he walked down a busy street with choice as his companion.

One who had drifted quietly out of the social round as money proved to be in short supply. Those holidays abroad, spent rollicking with friends and his habit of clowning in the early morning had become strangers to his life

He sipped his drink and wondered how it would be if he began again. The careers he might have followed, The chance  to walk once more through wilderness, and watch the stars: glittering and beautifully indifference. To those around who might catch him in a glance, he seemed a disconnected soul. One who’d looked at life and had forgotten what it was he had to say. Who cramped himself into a smaller space, and opened doors for people busier than him.

Someone walked towards him. Some young lad and asked if he had the time. Yes he did. Time was all he had, but that is not what he said. “Three thirty five”, his voice was crisp and clear. He knew better than to try and engage strangers in conversation. That was for the old, and he was not old yet. Not in his own mind. He sipped again and now he felt the music fill his heart and smiled at that chorus of ghosts from other times and lands,  who joined him in his solitary world and saw beyond his disengaging stare. He stood in silent guard over his  history. Recalling times when plans where more than dreams and urgency filled each waking hour.