For a while, I've been noticing this shot of whisky abandoned on the bar. A napkin covers the rim, a message printed upon it.
Call me! Then, a number.
All around, the world spins.
Screwdrivers twist over it, greyhounds run past it, beer hops over its covered mouth. The music is pounding, drinkers are slamming, the nattering crescendo. Incoming and outgoing, and even a wink in my direction.
I wait some more. Someone will notice, and be tempted. There he is. He's staring at it, thinking, should I call?
If he does, perhaps the conversation will go like this:
I found a napkin on top of a whisky with your number on it and I thought I would call you.
Are you the bartender?
No.
Click.
Hey bartender, do you know anything about this whisky? he asks, and I explain, if the napkin is lying over the rim of the glass, the person intends to come back to finish the drink.
He waits, the world spins.
By closing time, the whisky remains un-sipped. His hopes end when I fire the shot down to the underworld of bar pipes carrying the flow of abandoned hopes to the ocean. The napkin goes in the trash with the crushed cherries, popped olives, and the bitter rind.
There's always tomorrow, or yesterday, depending on your outlook.