Lost Echoes

In an empty bar he sits, neons flickering and reflecting off the hollow walls. A beer, another, once again, the bitter liquid sliding down his dryish throat. The refrigerator hums and hums; he presses two fingers to his temples, the sound rattling inside his skull. Someone pulls out a cigarette; smoke fills the space, curling and twisting in the dim light. Again, his hands tremble in the rhythm of flickering light. Again, he takes a sip, alcohol burning his tongue and throat. Smoke drifts around him, making him cough and swear. Again, he reaches for the glass, nasty taste, but he drinks anyway. His heart sinks, bound and chained, held captive by the hollow inside. Again, his thoughts are rotating, coming back to one. Again, his breath is out of order, body shaking, thoughts circling endlessly. He looks around and sees him: a tall man in a shabby coat. Again, he approaches the man, handing over a banknote under a table. The man counts the money and nods, leaving the bar in a hurry. Again, he goes to the call-box, hunting for his spoil. Again, he trembles when he grasps his trophy: so small, yet important. Again, he goes to the toilet, committing his crime. All worries, all of a sudden, dissolve, melt in the cold air. His pulse slows down, breath settling, finally steady. Again, he feels a sense of relief, sitting in the empty bar, a fleeting calm washing through him.