Fiction: Alone

Occasionally I write stories, letters, poems, etc. for fun. This is one of those things.

He hopped up onto the awning-covered stoop 
and shook the excess water off his jacket.
It wasn’t raining hard. 
Just drizzling. 
But it was Friday night 
and finding a place to park meant 
walking at least a block in the weather. 
It was Friday night inside, too. 
He pushed open the door 
and was greeted with the din 
of the neighborhood bar and cigarette fog. 
He recognized most of the people here and by the time he had hung up his coat, 
the bartender had a drink waiting for him. 
“How’s it going tonight, Jim?” 
“Same old, same old. Lookin’ like it’ll be pretty busy tonight.” 
Jim always said it the same way.
You could never tell if 
being busy was good. Or bad. 
He took a sip of his drink. 
An arm clapped onto the back of his shoulder. 
He turned and smiled. A friend from work.
“Hey Don, how’s it going?”
“Hey hey! It’s going, right? 
Glad it’s Friday and glad I’m here.”
“Heh, yea. Better than being alone right?”

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