The Usual

He was already reaching for the glass

when I came through the door—

third time this week. He didn't ask.

Just pulled the tap. The floor

sticky near the entrance, same

as always. Near-end stool.

The gap between me and the next one.

The usual

quiet between us.

He set the glass down.

I nodded.

I looked around

at the game on mute.

The score nobody here was watching.

I know the crack in the bar top.

The bowed shelf. The scratching

sound the tap makes

when it's almost out.

I've been here enough times

that noticing isn't what I do now—

it's just knowing.

I drank it. Ordered one more.

Sat there.

The glass sweat a ring on the bar.