✍🏻 A Man Who Shouldn’t Be There (Patreon)

He sat at the bar, absently stroking his wedding ring — as if he was about to take it off, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. I’d seen men like him many times before: unhappy in their marriages, or simply worn out by them — drained to the bone — yet still choosing to dull the pain with alcohol, to forget, to relax, just enough to muster the strength to endure it all over again.But this one... he seemed different. Even the drink appeared to bring him nothing but misery.He intrigued me.I walked over and smiled."Hey there," I said.

Usually, that was all it took to get a man’s attention.But not this time.

"Hi," he muttered, glancing at me from beneath his fair fringe with no interest — perhaps even a hint of wariness — before lowering his gaze again.

It took the shine off my mood a bit. But I don’t give up so easily.Especially when the matter at hand isn’t just money, but the rare chance to meet a real looker instead of the usual sleazy sack of cash.

This guy didn’t seem to have much money, judging by his worn-out old army jacket — but maybe, just maybe, for once in my life, things might actually get interesting.

I’ve worked in this bar a long time. You learn to see through people whether you want to or not. The bar counter’s the perfect place for observation.

Over the years, I started sorting men into types in my head.There’s the moneybag — rich, smug, reeking of cheap cologne and expensive whisky. The only thing worth taking from him is, well, his money.Then there’s the lost cause — bitter, broken, dead behind the eyes, and the more he drinks, the nastier he gets. Best to steer clear.And then there's the downtrodden pup — meek, needy, with the eyes of a kicked dog. He won’t hurt you, sure, but he won’t give you much either.

But him…He didn’t fit any of those categories.Somewhere between the second and third, perhaps — but also completely separate.Like beneath the exhaustion lay not just pain, but something much deeper.

I sat down next to him, trying to look as graceful as possible. His eyes stayed locked on his full glass of whisky.

"Just here to admire the drinks? This isn’t a museum, you know," I crossed my legs and leaned lightly on the bar. "If you don’t like whisky, there’s always something else... something better shared, perhaps."

He didn’t answer.Just clenched and unclenched his fingers, lips pressed tight.He was clearly waging some inner battle.

I started to think I’d misjudged him.Maybe he was one of those types after all.

But then, just as my smile was starting to slip, he finally spoke.

"I don’t even know what I’m doing here," his voice came rough and hoarse.

He gave me a brief look — almost apologetic — from beneath his fair fringe.

"Here. I paid for it, but didn’t touch it. If you drink stuff this strong..." he nudged the glass towards me.

"Ooh," I murmured, caught a bit off guard.

He was preparing to stand. His shoulders lifted and dropped again, as if hesitating.Something was keeping him here.Or chasing him here.

"Well, if you came here, there must be a reason, right?" I said gently, tilting my head to get a better look at his face — a storm of conflicting emotions."Maybe we could have a drink together? I prefer something lighter."

I carefully rested my hand on his shoulder, keeping him from leaving just a bit longer.

He turned towards me for the first time, and his eyes locked onto mine — thoughtful, intense.Was he considering my suggestion, or slipping back into his own thoughts again? Hard to tell.

"What’s your name?" I asked, as if casually straightening the collar of his green jacket.

"James," he answered immediately.Then shook his head and the words came pouring out:"I’m not here to flirt. I’m... married. I don’t know why I came. Just… needed to clear my head, I guess."

He looked at me again, still somewhat apologetically — but there was no pathetic self-pity in his eyes.Quite the opposite.

He stood, steady and sure, despite my hand still resting on his shoulder. I quickly pulled it back, surprised to find myself watching him from below.

"I need to get home. To my wife," he said, mostly to himself.

"You’re a good husband," I said, rising after him. "Your wife’s lucky to have you, you know."

I hid my disappointment behind a smile.At least I’d got a free whisky out of it.

James pressed his lips together, as if my words stung rather than soothed.Strange man… and yet something about him was magnetic.

In his greenish eyes, like mirrors, I could see all the emotions he carried — even if their source remained a mystery.

"We could just talk, you know. Nothing wrong with friendship."I reached behind the bar, pulled out a napkin, and scribbled on it with my favourite pink pen.Handing it to him, I said:"Come by if you ever want a chat. Or ring me at home. Maybe we could meet somewhere quiet… somewhere lovely."

I turned and walked towards the sofas — where the usual moneybags lounged about.

James watched the strange girl walk away, then looked down at the napkin in his hand.“Maria, 413 NXX-XXXX.”