47

The old man repositions the immediate area along the bar directly in front him, HIS, area, lights up a cigarette, takes a deep drag, considers the music, looks at his dwindling cash next to his almost empty well whiskey, shakes his head sadly, difficult choice really, listen to shit music and no more shit whiskey? Or tough it out in the hopes of a person with a better taste in music while sipping more cheap whiskey?
  He laughs at himself again at such a fine summation of his life.
  A week night here in this depressing place that not long ago, he couldn't wait to get off work and set off to, to meet one or many drinking buddies, or a lover.
 Not hard to believe he mused , rolling his exposed firearms along the polished wooden bar, the red, blue and green lights picking up the scars inside of his elbows.
  He absently runs his thumb across his left arm, a thousand tiny injections, spanning many years, catches himself wondering if he, maybe he could just, if perhaps old so n so wouldn't?
  Suddenly pushes away from the bar, drowning the last of his drink, reaches for the phone and change and keys to his borrowed car, glimpses at his reflection in the door glass and , sadly, laughs again at this horrible life he runs for.