A sad story for the melancholy.
|Old lady Ghoul works at the bar. It’s old fashioned, like her, made of lacquered wood and velvet. She drinks more than her customers.
“Ghoul,” barks a regular.
Without moving an eye, she pours an old fashioned for the equally old man. She then pours one for herself.
“You drink too much,” grunts the regular.
“Drop it,” growls Ghoul.
The regular sighs, then he shrugs, then he drinks. Ms. Ghoul pours herself another.
The regular pulls out a cigarette.
“You know the rules,” says Ghoul, lighting up her own.
The regular growls, Ghoul glares, he grunts to get up, then he smokes outside.
Now alone, Ms. Ghoul sighs, then she smokes, then she drinks, then she cries. It’s quiet.
The regular comes back in. Ms. Ghoul is pouring herself another drink.
“Check,” he asks
“You’re good,” Ghoul mumbles.
“I’ll clean up,” he says.
The regular grunts, then he sighs, the he shrugs, then he leaves.
Now alone, Ms. Ghoul drinks, and then she drinks, and then she drinks. She itches the burns on her face. Her eyepatch begins to scratch. She pours herself another drink, but the bottle is empty. Ms. Ghoul sighs, then she wipes counters, sweeps the floors, and empties the gutters.
Ms. Ghoul goes to bed at 12:30, falls asleep at 4:35, then wakes up at 5. She feels more rested than usual and gets ready for another day.