Waiting

The lobby stood empty except for a few stools and a single man drinking. In his hand a glass filled with a smokey drink, perhaps a scotch or a whiskey. Its colour vaguely resembles the smoky air that hung in the lobby, stifling the room. The hand grasping the stained glass shook slightly, raising the glass to his lips, which parted slightly when the oaken taste of alcohol touched his tongue. There are few things like a good well aged scotch they say. The appreciation of alcohol goes through stages. At first, we are all disgusted by the taste. It is wrong. Bad. It makes us different, and it is far from enjoyable to drink. Overtime it has it uses. when drunk fast, and with the intent of experiencing the change in ourselves, we can learn about ourselves, if anyone is willing to tell us. As we age, we learn to experience the subtle tastes of a drink, and move up to more expensive examples. It calms us. It relaxes the mind and simplifies the nerves. The rim of the glass is moist. It is placed on a coaster that lays on the table. The thud of the glass is a measurement of time. It isn't as accurate as you or I would think it. Looking up at the clock it is clear it is that time again. Time for another drink, another thought and another reason to drink a little more. Raise a hand raise a fist and raise a toast to the men and women that go to it alone. A toast. When does that term come from? It seems funny of sorts to picture a party raising toast in the air, yelling in happiness. Warmed bread, crusted and hard, resting in hands raised in the air in imperfect unison. A toast. Reminds many of Rocky Horror Picture Show,

The lobby is still empty. It always will be. It stands as a testament to the human condition. With each passing hour it fills and empties. People come and go, and the juke box repeats the same song again and again. Like a rolling stone, the stone collects no moss as it makes its way down the hill. The Lobby is still empty. Purgatory? Perhaps the lobby represents purgatory? It seems unlikely they would serve alcohol in purgatory. It would make infinity a bit to enjoyable. The Lobby doesn't have that feel. It wavers to much to be hell and heaven would never be a lobby. Perhaps it is not the place between heaven and hell but the place between death and life. It would make sense to sit in a lobby, have a drink, and wait for death to arrive. In a coma. Of course. It all makes sense. The lobby is a coma, a waiting place for death. They would serve alcohol there. It is never fun to die, and what better place to wait then an empty lobby with a good glass of scotch. The sweaty and poorly tailor suit also fits the moment. The grey haired temples, and the shaking hand also fit the scene. Perhaps angels will come and take him away. 

The glass thuds once again on the table. Raising from the stool, the single man stands and stretches his old legs. The suit jacket is a couple sizes to small. Must be old. Girth is known to grow when one gets older. The jacket is a bit too long as well. One does shrink with age. Fitting. A five and a couple of crumpled ones leave the pocket of the poorly maintained pants. The soles of the shoes are worn at the front of the left foot, for it drags. The cane in the right hand also makes sense. It all makes sense. An old man, an old drink, and an old life. When in doubt, everything is old. The lobby is empty. The old man is gone, and there is no movement. From a distance you hear foot steps, and a young man sits at the same stool, orders a beer and waits.