Bar(Elizabeth Aldam) The bar he had chosen was simple, it was a place where people went for a drink after work but nothing
fancy. It was well-lit, definitely not a pickup place though certainly, you did not need a bar with that name
to end up with a stranger going through the motions of kissing passionately.
He was young and looked younger. The waiter asked him for his order with a bemused look on his face,
sensing he was old enough to drink and young enough to be heartbroken.
" Beer, stout, please."
The waiter bet he only had money for just one pint. Still, this boy had class. He seemed to be the kind of
boy girls want as a brother and mothers dream for their daughters. He also seemed to be the kind of
makes fathers stand straighter and become more vigilant, sensing competition of a most unfair kind.
Still, he was there, alone, ordering a beer in a second-rate bar, with a sad look on his face.
" Anything else?"
"No, thank you."
Time passed slowly at the bar, It was still early evening, still promising, still time for anything and
everything, or so thought the waiter. Coming and going with his orders, from time to time he eyed the
pensive young man at a table in a corner, drinking his solitary beer. Maybe he was waiting for someone.
Still, an air of sadness around him seemed to tell all and sundry no one was coming to join him.
The young man, impervious to everyone, opened his gym bag took out of small copybook and a pen and
started writing. The place seemed to recede while his lines flew from pen to paper, to remain there. If only
she had remained as well he would not be writing about her. He would not be heartbroken either.
He smiled to himself, "heartbroken" sounded tragic, out of the 19th century and yet it was the only word
he could think of to describe the way he felt. She had left him, as coldly as that, and thus had proven all
women cruel and cold. For, to him, she had been all women in one. She had been a friend, a girlfriend
and a lover. She had been the kitten, the sex pot, the temptress,the lust and love of his life. And now she
was gone.
All of a sudden, he understood what poets and writers referred to when they spoke of love as a disease
capable of killing a man in a short time. This is what women did to you. First you wanted them and
thought you could have them and remain free. Illusions. No man ever remained free. Sooner or later, you
would feel something for that sweet creature,you would be caught in her life as you were caught in her
arms.
Men were lost, he knew this now and it made him sadder than ever. Why would any sensible man fall for
his sister's best friend? Sisters were wonderful to have, they mothered you in a much fresher way and
they usually had charming friends you could ask on a date. Well, now he wished they hadn't those friends
but it was too late. He had invited one of those girls out and soon it turned out to be more than a mere
date. Actually, it was a sequence of dates and these dates soon ceased to be merely friendly after the
second one. Also soon he became the envy of his school friends. Of course, she was gorgeous the kind
of girl other girls never trusted and boys pursued with a zest. The kind of girl that seemed to be an eternal
promise of delights.
Well, now the "eternal" had changed to "gone", at least in his case. She had perhaps grown tired of him,
bored, or unable to relate to someone so much younger. He just couldn't place any of these possible
reasons he only knew he realized only too late how much she had cared for him and how much he still
cared for her.
Memories of a happy past are to be visited when there is some inkling this past can become present
again. When this is not the case they only bring sadness like old family photos in which everyone is gone
except the viewer, of course.
He wrote busily, not paying attention to anyone, her and his loss. He never not even for a second, thought
she had lost something when leaving him. Oh, no, the loss was all his, his was the pain and his was also
the bereavement. She was gone, gone to a different life, gone to a man her age perhaps, or maybe older,
someone wiser, someone powerful. Because women liked power in men, power was an aphrodisiac in its
own right for them, they thrived on it.
He felt better while writing, only pen and paper could take his thoughts without being shocked or bored.
Pen and paper made his love story in mortal.
" Do you need more napkins?", the waiter asked.
"Napkins?" he repeated.
" Yes, you have used up the ones you had on the table."
" Well, I have this copybook but I prefer napkins, they are more attuned to the moment, to what I feel
now."
" Of course, I'll bring you some more, no big deal."
The waiter brought him some more with a smile. Somehow this young man seemed destined for great
things and whatever was being written on flimsy squares of paper was preparing him for them.

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