Ericapaeus

The bar table is sticky. The juices glistened in the dull light from the flickering TV in the back corner. Sports silently enact itself before glassy eyes and dull thoughts. To the left two older gentlemen play pool, wearing rugged clothing, contrasting their worn, and tired frames; too thin and frail to empress even the weakest of men. The clicking and clacking, thumping and tapping gives the bar an aroma of infinite existence. Time feels worn, like a well used path; the path to the promise land. The carpets have been walked by many dragging feet, with blood stains soaked into the ragged fabric, exuding the pathetic cycle of alcohol, violence, and frustration of lost time and failed endeavours. Above the waitresses head line many famous quotes, most from celebrated alcoholic writers. The men care not that they may share a similar end to those of Ernest Hemmingway and Hunter S. Thompson, without the arrogance or brilliance to leave a bit of themselves behind. To the right the tinted windows show a deserted street. The street light strains to light the darkest of corners, as the rain falls upon an empty street. Once in a while a car will drive by, lighting a back ally, or maybe illuminating a hollow window. 

"Hi." His shy words clash with the scenery. The waitress looks up. She isn't startled, she isn't surprised. She is only awakened. Her eyes lose the faded facade she implements when she wants to be left alone. The man sitting at the bar is looking at her with quiet eyes, eyes that hold the promise of intelligence and sympathy. Anyone who says they don't want pity are liars or derelicts. 

"Hi" she replied. He stood there sovereignly. He had a grey specked soul, and dirty blonde hair that matched the stained and grotesque ceiling, yet it added a beauty that she never noticed before. She smiled, unable to hide the sheepish confusion that played across her lips. 

"Can I help you?" The question evoked a quizzical look from his features. 

"Everyone can help anyone" he replied solemnly. She raised her hand. She dropped it, unable to respond to his statement. She had spoken the same four words in the same order, mechanically, for years. She hadn't realized that she had forgotten what they meant.  Can. I. Help. You. She thought for the first time what each word meant. Can represented an action, or the future of one. I represented herself, the word that helped her explain her own existence to another. Help. Help is what she did everyday. She helped men cope, run, and die. You. Who is you? what is you? This man? 

"I can't" she replied. The man looked at her. He raised his hand, and held within it a coin. He than flipped it. instinctually she closed her eyes, and muttered "heads" as the coin fluttered in the dense air. She heard the sound of metal striking skin and the slapping of a hand against another. She opened her eyes. He stood there, with the coin beneath his fingers and palm. 

"if its head, you can't." she looked down, and saw a head looking back at her. He looked at her. She looked at him. He stood up, and placed the coin on the table, and walked away. She looked down, and placed shaking fingers upon the cold metal laying on the table. She flipped the coin.