01:55 PM—he’s out here alone in a darkened alley behind the club, wasting away his 15 minute break on cigarettes and a starless night he doesn’t really care for; overhyped mainstream electronica reaches his ears through the cracks in the closed door beside him, muted enough for him to be able to ignore. the marlboro black pressed between his lips is more habit and less addiction, one he’s tried to quit on several different occasions but never hard enough to actually succeed. self-destruction is an art of its own, after all, his methods simply subtler, like most people you’d pass by on any select sidewalk here in gangnam on a saturday night—or any day of the week, really, whatever the time of day; but he’s never been one for semantics.
he’s clichéd, yes, but that doesn’t mean he has to make a show of it. He’s rather good at lying, both to others and to himself. especially to himself. aren’t we all, though—but back to the metaphorical man of the hour.
he inhales one last time, cigarette held between forefinger and thumb, back against the concrete wall and the taste of tobacco heavy on his tongue; holds, then exhales, emptying the smoke filling his lungs into the chilly night air in swirls of misty gray that mask the stench of urine and day-old vomit. he remembers things, during little moments like these, when all he has to keep himself company are the ashes of his cigarettes and the ghosts of his past. memories.
a childhood out on the mountainside. a river, a nameless graveyard on the other side of the river. a run down shack barely left standing after every storm. an old log fireplace where he used to burn the tips of too small fingers, part responsibility, part ritual. a mother, a father, a younger brother—his younger brother. a gift, a necklace they fashioned by hand using a small shell they found by the aforementioned river. dying. not dying. promises made. promises broken.
the guilt has become a constant in his life, a metaphorical noose around his neck he wears with no complaints much like the tie he wears as part of his official working attire that he can almost feel getting just a little bit tighter, now that he thinks about it—but any further thought on the matter, or any related matter, (or just any matter really) is interrupted by one of his lovely colleagues leaning through the half-open door telling him, not very nicely, that his break ended 3 minutes ago and that she’s not getting paid any extra money to ‘do his fucking job for him’. he smiles at her, drops whatever was left of the cigarette between his fingers onto the ground by his feet amid at least 3 other filters; apparently, the smoking is just one of many ugly habits, and the rest of those ugly habits happen to include littering.
maybe our dear, beloved protagonist would care more about the state of god’s green earth if he weren’t hoping for an early apocalypse. but anyway.
he straightens and walks past her to his usual place behind the bar with a retort that leaves her fuming, something along the lines of ‘maybe they’d think about paying you to do my job when you’re decent enough at doing your own.’ practiced smile easy on his lips, all smooth words and charm; when you’re a bartender working at a club, you’re not really a bartender as much as you’re an entertainer. answer is just one of many where all the company product consists of is illusion and a ten minute high.
he looks up from serving his last customer and turns to tend to his next. there’s a sense of familiarity to the face of the man leaning over the counter that he can’t quite put his finger on, and he eventually pushes the idea back to the far corners of his mind. he’s already reaching for an empty glass.
“and what would you like to have today, sir? if you happen to be wondering, I make a great white russian.”
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