The man she buried is back and knocking. But this is nothing new, she has improved over time, and she's ignored it for years. But some days (like today) she just needs a little help when the knocking is just too much. The metaphorical tapping on her head and heart knocks in silence but tears through her like a rusty blade.

This place is her sanctuary, she likes the anonymity of it. Often getting lost in the noise, she becomes part of the ambiance, until she craves her individuality once again.

But for now, the quiet unclear rumble of a room full of conversations, highlighted with the random yet precise sound of glass on glass celebration was just what she needed. The dull rumble of 100 people comparing the joy and frustration of their daily events. The smell of steaming hot, freshly washed glasses fills the air around the immediate bar area. The smell of hot glassware is a defining sign of a busy night, a successful night. It leaves quiet a pleasant and very unique aroma in the air when mixed with the aged mahogany counter top and chestnut trim around the bar. That aged dark brown mahogany island making itself a seasoned refuge to those who need it most. It certainly was hers.


She blinks slowly to herself hoping her eyes open with slightly better focus than they just closed with, as she steadies herself on the bar stool. The haze in her brain lets her think this trick of regaining her composure will sell her sobriety to the few nearby folks who have been casting sideways glances at her for the last hour or so. Maybe now they will take her seriously, maybe now they will engage beyond a smile that barely masks their pity.

The hope for results disappears quicker than the thought itself as she fumbles through her purse for a light.

It's a typical Thursday night spent at the pub, taking part in conversations that aren't hers, answering questions asked to someone else. Talking to everyone yet talking to no one. 

She's a regular that only the bartenders know.


" Where is that damn lighter?", She mumbles under her breath as the orange glow from Johns hand ignites her 5th cigarette this hour. A long draw fills her lungs. Satisfied, she exhales, grabbing his hand, and focusing with her best eye as she looks in his direction," Ahh, You're one of the good ones, John.", her raspy voice trailing off to a smile he can hear as easily as he could see if he ever looked back at her. She looks down at the empty drink glass in front of her. She spies the lipstick stained butts in the ashtray and tries to ignore the instant connection her spinning mind is making, how the time spent here is being represented by all those crumpled butts.

Its going to be hit and miss. She's got a 50/50 chance if John pours another. She knows he sees the butts too. That's what the compliment was all about. But now is the moment of truth. Is he good enough for one more drink?

She shoots her shot, but john is already sliding over a glass of ice water, "That's enough for tonight hun. I called your cab twenty minutes ago, and they bin' outside for five." .

You see, the thing is, bartenders always keep the ashtrays empty and the bar top dry. This is how you keep the whiskey and money flowing. But not with her. John always did the opposite, he let those butts build up, and he always left 2 or 3 of her empty glasses nearby too. Sometimes, they weren't even hers, but this was his little trick. He did it so she would pace herself. He knew that there was still some self control left in there. Her grace was not gone, just misplaced.


Like anyone well studied in their trade, as a bartender John knew people and she had been coming through these doors like a religion for close to ten years now. The fact is, she wasn't wrong, John really was one of the good ones.

But still, this was their unspoken game, this little back and forth. His way of hoping to keep her in check. This was his way of keeping a light on for her in the middle of her storm, he knew her well enough by now, and he knew she wasn't lost, just caught in her storm, still searching for 'safe harbour'.

This was her routine...this was Thursday. He's buried once again, but he'll be back knocking, and like clockwork she'll be back tomorrow night around 8, with the same intentions. But that's tomorrow, lets not get ahead of ourselves.


With one hand on his cheek, John receives his ritual Midnight blessing from her. "God love ya John, you take such good care of me...if I was 20 yrs younger I'd have scooped you up 20 yrs ago...." The smell of stale nicotine trails away from his cheek as quickly as her daily ritual flirts. He downplays it, like always "yeah, yeah, don't make Chester wait, you know how he gets." She falls to her feet and as she tries to disguise a look of defeat, she smiles at whoever looks her way as she makes her exit, waving goodbye to people she doesn't see, looking at the floor before her.


Like so many night before, she's gone again, leaving only the familiar scent of cheap perfume, strong alcohol and loneliness trailing off into the dark parking lot cut by the swinging door to the foyer. When the door stops swinging there's nothing left but that cheap knock off scent that almost paints itself to the roof of your mouth. "Chester!, how the hell are ya'? Still mad at the world for your mistakes?"

Chuckling, he snaps back ," ...it sure is a long walk home tonight for a lady in heels!"


"oh stop it, you love me and you know it, you cranky old bastard!, roll my window down...i got a cigarette going here!' "yeah well just don't burn the seat again..."

Their bickering along with the Chester's taillights fade as the car rolls through the fog of its own exhaust.


She'll be back tomorrow, because the true sadness of her story is that the only thing that once kept the knocking at bay is now the very thing that wakes it within her and leaves her craving the remedy for it.

All these years of self medicating, fighting feelings of guilt, sorrow, loss and self loathing has left its mark on the corner of her eyes. But it's all about to come to a confusing halt. Within a few days this would all change with a found stash of letters and an unfamiliar face that comes knocking.