The man slumps down at the end of the counter, contemplating his life in the ice in the bottom of his glass. He lifts it, tipping his head back. The last drop of the amber liquor sticks to its bottom, unwilling to drizzle past the ice to his open mouth. Disheartened he sets the glass back down with a thunk.

What has his life come to? He used to be happy. He used to golf on Sundays and go to cocktail parties with his wife. Now he is reduced to seeking solace in the bottom of a glass in a dimly lit bar, nodding at strangers who come seeking the same thing for different reasons.

The Eagles Desperado is playing softly in the background of his thoughts and he remembers it’s his mother’s birthday. He’ll have to call her in the morning. He tries to check with her every few weeks but she always sounds so sad, asking him how he’s holding up, some days he just can’t face it.

He signals to the barman who passes him another glass of whisky. This will be his last for the evening and they both know it.

“Hey Mike, hang in there,” the barman feels bad for him and tries to reach out to the lonely man every so often.

He just nods and tries to drown the memories of his wife in amber liquor.