I came to conquer my fears, but as it turns out, it was not fear that I needed to be worried about; hope was the real problem. We all have fears, most of which, in fact, are the same—fear of dying, fear of being alone, fear of failure. But what nobody ever tells you is that sometimes, something amazing will waltz into your life and fill you with so much hope that you think you might burst at the seams, and yet, you still have to push it away because holding onto it will cause you more harm than good. And for those that do hold on, ignoring all the signs: I can’t say I blame you. Because at least you tried, and in the end, all you can really do is try, right?
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The warm, muggy haze of summer persisted, even after the sun went down. Bart stepped inside the bar, which was, thankfully, quieter than he had expected for a Thursday night. The barstool he usually sat in—second from the left—was occupied, which irked him. He considered waiting outside until his seat became available, but he was thirsty and reassured himself that he was being ridiculous. It wouldn’t make a difference which stool he sat on.
Larry—a scrawny, forty-something year-old neurotic with a fast mouth and a slight twitch—was bartending that night. Bart always thought he looked something like a cross between a rat and a sloth, but maybe even that was too generous. And although Bart wouldn’t go so far as to say that Larry was a friend, he was relieved to see him. He would certainly never ask Larry to spend time together outside of the bar (after all, Larry was probably twenty years older than him), but Larry was fun to talk to, and Bart really needed someone to talk to that night.
The heat had been unbearable, pushing the electrical grids to their limits as thousands of air conditioning units around the city labored relentlessly, a never-ending effort to cool spaces that weren’t designed to be cool. Bart noticed the pint glasses atop the bar, all sweating with condensation, and wiped his forehead with a beverage napkin left behind on the counter. He ran his fingers through his unruly brown hair, deciding that if the heat kept up, he would need to get a haircut.
“106 today. Can you believe it?” Larry said as Bart took his seat on the barstool fourth from the left.
The problem with this barstool, Bart thought to himself, is that it’s too central, too exposed. He preferred sitting closer to the wall, where he felt more secluded, hidden.
“I mean, if it gets any hotter I’m gonna have to tape ice bags to my forehead or something,” Larry complained. “I’m already on my second stick of deodorant this week. My girl keeps saying I stink like shit when I get home. And I’m like, ‘Babe, what am I supposed to do? I’m running around like a madman behind this bar trying to make a living.’ I don’t know,” he sighed, shaking his head. “She doesn’t get it. What can I get you, the usual?”
This is precisely why Bart liked coming to this bar. He didn’t have to think about what to say, or how to fill any unwanted silences, because he knew that Larry would start yapping as soon as he sat down. “Yeah, the usual’s good. Thanks, Larry,” Bart replied. He was about to mention that the heat was the reason he was at the bar in the first place; his A/C unit had broken, and his apartment had become unbearably hot. But before he could say anything, Larry dove back into his tirade.
“And get this—she says I stink like shit? So I’m like, ‘Yo, have you smelled yourself recently? No lie, I know dogs that smell better than you.’ But I can’t say that, right? Even though it’s true. My buddy Stevie’s dog? Smells like vanilla. Swear to God! But if I told her that, she’d get all dramatic, start with the ‘you don’t really love me’ stuff. It’s a mess. Anyway—lemme put your order in,” Larry dashed away, disappearing around the corner of the bar.
Bart waited patiently, scanning the room. He knew the layout of the bar by heart at this point, as if his mind were in charge of monitoring the capacity of people coming and going. There were seven booths and nine barstools in total. On this particular night, three of the booths and four of the barstools were occupied. A young couple sat in the two stools farthest to the left—his usual spot—and seemed to be on a date, possibly their first. To his right, at the very other end of the bar, sat another regular, whom he recognized by face but didn't know by name. As he glanced at the booths, surveying the groups of friends, families, and lovers all enjoying each other’s company, he couldn’t help but wonder why he didn’t have something like that, and was instead stuck talking to Larry. He let out a sigh, bracing himself for some sudden onset of existential dread, when he noticed a beautiful woman sitting alone in a booth in the back right corner of the bar.
Her gaze was fixed on a book, her eyes fluttering back and forth as she intently read each page. Bart tried to make out what she was reading, but the book was tilted just horizontally enough that he couldn’t see the front cover. Why do people come to bars to read? Bart pondered this question, wondering how anyone could possibly focus with all the racket surrounding him. Didn’t the voices distract her? The music, the chatter, the hooting and hollering, the occasional crash of glass that came from the kitchen—Bart could barely hear his own thoughts, let alone read. Maybe he should ask her how she does it…
And then a singular thought grabbed his attention: if he did not speak to the woman reading the book, he might spend the entire rest of his life alone, in solitude. Or worse—speaking to Larry.
His chest twisted into a knot that was wound so tightly that he thought he might stop breathing. He glanced over his shoulder again at her. The truth was that he liked talking to people; he had a profound interest in hearing their stories, their problems, their triumphs. But he had decided long ago that he was not—would never be—the type of guy to walk up to a beautiful woman at a bar.
He refocused his attention on the row of liquor bottles on the other side of the bar. Where was Larry?, he wondered. He hadn’t even gotten his drink yet.
“Are you always going to be like this?” a voice asked.
Like what?, Bart thought.
“So afraid of taking risks. She’s just a person. Talk to her.”
What if I bother her?
“You most certainly will. But even if you do, you’ll have bothered exactly one person today, or this week, or maybe your entire life.”
What should I say?
“Ask her what she’s reading.”
What if I make a fool of myself?
“Life is a fool’s errand.”
Bart found himself sliding off the stool, no longer in control of his limbs, driven by some divine intervention, walking toward the woman. Now facing her directly, he realized just how stunning she was. Her short blonde hair framed her tan, sun-kissed shoulders, left bare by a periwinkle tube top. For a moment, Bart considered whether an evening talking to Larry would be so bad after all. He was just about to turn around, retreating into the pathetic safety of familiarity and comfort, when she glanced up at him, making eye contact.
He had no choice now; he closed the distance between them, and with a soft smile, said hello.
“Hi,” she replied. An awkward silence lingered in the air for a moment.
“I was wondering what you’re reading,” Bart said, pointing at the book.
“The Murder on the Links by Agatha Christie,” she answered, showing the front cover.
“Have you read it?”
“No, I’ve never heard of it. Is it any good?”
“It’s amazing,” she said, her face brightening with a smile. “I love a good murder mystery. You should check it out.”
Bart glanced at his shoes and then back at her. “Yeah, I definitely will. Anyway, uh, I was wondering if maybe you’d want to have a drink with me.”
She hesitated, considering the offer. “Listen, I hate to break it to you pal, but I’m boy sober right now.”
“Boy sober? What does that mean?” Bart asked, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion, anticipating disappointment.
“Well,” she started to explain, “it means exactly what you think it probably means. I’m supposed to be taking a break from guys right now. But you’re cute. You can sit if you want.” She gestured towards the open booth on the other side of the table. “It’s actually kind of too noisy to read in here anyway.”
Bart smiled and slid into the booth. “I’m Bart, by the way.”
“Bart. Interesting. I don’t think I know any other Barts,” she commented, a teasing smirk on her face. “Is that short for something?”
“Bartholomew. It’s a bit of a mouthful.”
“I kind of like it. I’m Raffaella. Everyone calls me Rafi. It’s nice to meet you.” She extended her hand toward Bart, a gesture of playful formality, and Bart shook it. “So what are you doing here alone on a Thursday night?”
Bart was about to explain his current predicament—the broken A/C unit, the sweltering heat trapped inside his apartment—when Larry sauntered over to the booth and placed Bart’s beer in front of him on the table. Larry didn’t say anything, but gave Bart a nudge on the shoulder as if to say, “Nice job!”, which was so blatantly obvious that it made Rafi laugh.
“Thanks, Larry,” Bart said, shifting in his seat.
And suddenly, Bart found himself on a date, his first date in over two years. He wasn’t sure if Rafi would call it a date; she would probably just refer to it as two people talking, given her status as "boy sober." But the conversation naturally weaved its way through all the usual topics one might discuss on a first date: what do you do for work, what do you do for fun, how many siblings do you have, do you have any pets, do you have any upcoming travel plans, if you died tomorrow, what would you do today?
They traded tidbits about their lives, the type of things that Bart hadn’t shared with anyone in a long time, like the fact that he sometimes woke up early on Sundays to watch the sunrise, or the fact that ever since he was twelve, he wanted a pet raccoon. He had spent so many lonely evenings inside this bar, constantly observing the people around him, that he had become somewhat of an expert on gauging how well a date was going. Within the first ten minutes of seeing another couple interact, he could tell with almost near certainty whether they were going to have a good or a bad night. And after ninety minutes speaking with Rafi, Bart decided that the night was, in fact, going to be better than good; it would be amazing.
In his peripheral vision, there was a bronze, life-sized statue of a cowboy standing on a cow skull. He never understood why the statue was in the bar in the first place; it wasn’t Western-themed, after all. And he always found it to be somewhat distracting, like an apparition watching his every move.
But as Rafi dove into an embarrassing story from her teenage years, barely able to contain her laughter as she let the story slowly unfold, the statue disappeared from Bart’s vision. Then the other booths vanished, and all the people too. Even Larry’s loud, piercing voice receded into silence.
Eventually, everything melted away with the summer heat, and the only thing left in the entire world was Rafi. Bart hung on her every word as she giggled her way through the story, and he felt her leg brush against his underneath the table. A void had been torn in the universe; he was certain that they were the only two entities that remained.
“And then—get this—I said, ‘AHOY MATEY!’” Rafi exclaimed, letting out a snort as she laughed.
“You’re kidding! You really thought you were the captain, huh?” Bart teased, snapping back to attention with a laugh of his own.
“Right? Like how embarrassing!” Rafi bantered, still reveling in the silliness of her story.
They laughed together for a few moments, and when Bart sensed a lull coming, he glanced down at the table, which now had four empty pint glasses sitting atop it. “Shall we do another round?” he asked.
She smiled and nodded her head with a slight shrug. “Sure, let’s do it.”
But just as Bart was about to stand, everything disappeared into blackness, this time for real. A burst of gasps and screams rippled throughout the bar before everyone realized what had happened—the bar had lost power.
“Oh, you gotta be friggin’ kidding me!” Larry shouted from behind the bar. “Alright, alright, everyone stay calm. Just an outage, the generators should be coming on any minute.”
“Woah, spooky,” Rafi said, pretending to make ghost noises.
“I can’t even see you,” Bart mumbled, suddenly feeling dizzy from the two beers he drank. “Well, might as well get that other round while we wait.”
Bart approached the bar, sliding in next to two women who were crowding the bar, their faces illuminated by the bright glow of their phone screens. He asked Larry for two more beers.
“Says here that it’s a citywide outage,” said one of the women.
“Really?” Bart asked, intruding on the conversation.
“Yeah, look.” She showed him the headline on her phone. “They’re saying the grid is fried, there won’t be power again until tomorrow morning.”
“You’re kidding,” Bart said, suddenly dreading the state of his apartment—no A/C, no power, nothing.
He retrieved the two beers from Larry and carefully found his way through the darkness back to Rafi.
“A woman at the bar just said that it’s a citywide outage and power won’t be back until tomorrow,” Bart explained. He turned on his phone’s flashlight and placed it in the center of the table.
“No WAY!” Rafi exclaimed. “Wait—I have an idea!”
Before Bart could even respond, Rafi chugged the entire beer and jumped out of the booth with her book. “Follow me!” she directed, running for the door.
She was halfway out of the bar before Bart sprang into action, picking up his phone and frantically pulling two twenty-dollar bills out of his pocket, throwing them on the table. That should be enough, he thought to himself, hoping that it would cover his tab, and if not, that Larry would understand the situation. He rushed out of the bar, following a few paces behind Rafi as she escaped into the eerie darkness of the night.
Rafi raced down the sidewalk, and he struggled to keep up with her, weaving his way around people in his path. Where was she going? Was she trying to lose him? The thought suddenly occurred to him that he was chasing after a woman, in the middle of the night, during a citywide blackout. And then his mind took an even darker turn—what if this was a setup, a scam? What if she was taking him to the end of some alleyway, where three giant men were waiting, ready to steal his phone and wallet and organs?
Bart followed her into the park, about twenty paces behind her. Just as he was ready to give up the chase, allowing her to disappear into the night, she suddenly turned around 180 degrees, pulled out a disposable camera, and snapped a photo of Bart.
“Perfect!” she shouted. “You’re a natural!”
Two phantom white spots lingered in Bart’s vision from the flash of the camera. “Whoa, what was that?”
“It’s a disposable camera,” she explained. “I like carrying one around so that I can remember what’s happening in my life. I didn’t want to forget about this night.”
She doesn’t want to forget about me, Bart thought to himself. His heart fluttered, but he maintained his composure, not wanting to come across as too excited. “Oh, jeez! You almost gave me a heart attack. I thought you were trying to run away from me for a second,” Bart said, letting out a nervous laugh.
“Run away? No way, man. We’re in this blackout together,” Rafi reassured him, hooking her arm through his.
The park was remarkably busy, considering the hour. It was just past midnight, yet dozens of people had come to the park to admire the novelty of seeing their city in complete darkness. Skyscrapers stood like lonely sentinels around the edges of the park, and the trees looked like monsters, their looming branches hulking overhead. A light chatter spread throughout the park too; neighbors musing about the strangeness of the situation. Bart listened to the conversations—some people seemed elated; some seemed annoyed. It’s funny how two people can see the same situation so differently, Bart thought.
They found an open bench near the fountain in the park and plopped down beside each other.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Rafi asked, twisting her head around to get a full view of the city.
“Yeah, it really is,” Bart agreed. “You know, it’s only fair I take a photo of you, since you got one of me.”
“Let’s get one together,” Rafi suggested, flipping the camera around and taking a selfie of the two of them.
“Aw man, I think I blinked,” Bart said, rubbing his eyes.
Rafi let out a slight giggle. “That’s ok, I’m sure you looked great.”
They sat in silence for a long time, and Rafi leaned in closer, letting her head fall on Bart’s shoulder.
“If/when the power comes back on, I can’t wait to take a warm shower,” Rafi said, breaking the silence.
“What did you just say?” Bart clarified.
“That I can’t wait to take a shower?” Rafi reiterated.
“No, before that. You said if/when or something like that.”
“Oh, yeah,” Rafi realized, suddenly registering what Bart was asking. “That’s just something I like to say. If/when. It’s like, you never know for certain whether something is going to happen. People always say ‘when’ with such conviction. But it’s like, who knows if something will happen? That’s why I say if/when.”
“Huh, it’s true, I guess” Bart said, pondering this idea for a few moments. “You’re an interesting girl, Rafi,”
She smiled. “Trust me—now that I’ve mentioned it, you’ll start to notice too how often people say ‘when’, when they really mean ‘if’.”
After sitting for some time, they wandered around the perimeter of the park and eventually made their way into the city streets, meandering with no clear direction in mind. They passed a man selling water bottles and white t-shirts that said “BLACKOUT 2024” written in Sharpie on the front. Bart was tempted to buy one for Rafi as a keepsake of sorts, but realized that he had thrown all his cash down on the table at the bar.
As they walked, they noted how bizarre everything looked—all the bars and restaurants stood like hollow silhouettes. Without its vibrant neon lights illuminating the block, Dex’s World-Famous Cheesesteak shop was just another shadowy building. Rafi slipped her hand into Bart’s, catching him off-guard with the immediacy of her touch. They had only known each other for a few hours, and yet, she seemed perfectly comfortable holding his hand. Bart wondered: How long had it taken before he first held his ex-girlfriend’s hand? Three dates? Four? But he didn't resist Rafi's impulsiveness. Perhaps a little bit of her spontaneity is exactly what I need, he thought.
“I just had another idea. We should go to The Crest!” Rafi suggested.
The Crest was exactly what it sounded like—a high perch on a hill that captured the best view of the skyline. On any other Thursday night, there was a zero percent chance that Bart would walk to The Crest. It was at least a thirty-minute walk away from their current location, and it was already past 1 a.m. But his apartment was in shambles, and the streets were still buzzing with collective excitement about the blackout, and he finally—finally—had someone to keep him company. Without hesitation, he said, “Let’s do it.”
They continued trading stories about their lives, highlighting the better moments of their pasts, when Bart felt compelled to ask an unavoidable question. “So what made you want to be boy sober?”
“Ah, you know, the usual,” Rafi said, waving her hand in a dismissive manner. “Bad breakup, cheating ex-boyfriend, had to move out of his apartment. That was about six months ago. I just got kind of fed up with dealing with anybody but myself, you know? So I decided that I would do just that—deal with myself, deal with my own problems.”
“That’s probably healthy, right?” Bart wondered.
“Yeah, for sure,” Rafi agreed. “I think everyone should take a break from trying to find a partner every once in a while.”
Bart chuckled internally at this comment—most people did not need to try to take a break from finding a partner. Most people struggled valiantly against the will of the universe to find a partner, with little to no success. He realized that Rafi’s beauty shielded her from the desperate trials and tribulations that so many people had to endure in the dating world; he figured she probably got hit on all the time, the same way that he had hit on her earlier in the evening.
“Do you ever get lonely?” Bart asked, but as soon as the words left his mouth, he immediately regretted it. He didn’t want to come across as too obvious.
“It can get lonely at times, but you’d be surprised how many beautiful things can happen when you’re tuned into the world and paying attention to what’s going on around you. When I stopped worrying about wanting things, a lot of good started to happen to me,” Rafi answered.
“Like tonight?” Bart mused.
“Exactly! Like tonight,” Rafi confirmed.
Would this chance interaction have occurred if I hadn’t initiated it? Bart wondered. Certainly not, he decided.
It took them longer than thirty minutes to reach The Crest, mainly because they stopped every few minutes to take photos of each other with the disposable camera. When they arrived, it was relatively quiet. There were a handful of people still on the hill, looking out over the city, but most people had gone home to rest, waiting for the sun to illuminate the land once again. Bart and Rafi leaned against the railing, soaking up a view that they would surely only get to see once in their life. Stars danced above the buildings, the crescent moon dangled high above in the sky. Bart felt at peace, but it was not the kind of peace that one feels after a hot yoga session or a deep tissue massage. He felt at peace with himself, with his standing in the world, with the way things were going, as if he were meant to be in this very spot, at this very moment, next to Rafi.
“If/when do you think the power will come back on?” Bart asked. “Did I use that ‘if/when’ right?” he added, with a laugh.
“Wow, you’re learning,” Rafi teased. “Yes, you used it perfectly. But I don’t really know when the lights will come back on. That’s the beauty of saying if/when. You don’t really have to worry about it because you don’t know what will happen.”
“You don’t ever worry about the future?” Bart inquired.
“Not really,” Rafi answered, moving closer to Bart. “If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be.”
“I guess so. A part of me hopes the lights never come back on,” Bart admitted.
“Why’s that?” Rafi prompted.
Bart hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should say what he was about to say, but then he said it anyway. “I don’t want my night with you to end.”
Rafi looked at him with searching, expectant eyes, but said nothing. Her gaze was fixed on him, and he could tell that there were things that perhaps she wanted to say, but would not. And because she could not say the things she wanted to say, she just stared and stared and stared, leaving Bart to suddenly feel somewhat uncomfortable.
“You know, because of how unique it is, with the blackout, and everything,” Bart clarified, backtracking.
At around 2:30 a.m., they descended the hill and started making their way back to their neighborhood. Bart offered to walk Rafi home, considering the late hour. They had used the last of the camera’s film on the hill, commemorating the moment with a series of goofy selfies. Everything must come to an end, eventually, Bart thought to himself.
As they approached Rafi's apartment, Bart feigned surprise and said, "Oh! I never got your number."
“Oh yeah, duh!” Rafi said, pulling her phone out of her pocket.
They exchanged numbers and gazed at each other momentarily.
“I still have your camera too,” Bart said, realizing it was in his right hand. He held it out to her, but she didn’t take it.
“Actually, you keep it,” Rafi offered. “Let me know if/when you get the film developed.”
“Ok, sure, definitely,” Bart said, smiling.
Rafi leaned forward and gave Bart a kiss on the cheek before opening the door to her apartment. “Goodnight!” she said, disappearing inside.
Bart held the camera in his hand and began walking home, allowing the idle heat of the summer night to swallow him whole.
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When Bart awoke the next morning, he felt as if he had been shot out of a cannon. He did not feel hungover or tired or anything else. He did not check to see if the power had returned, or if anyone had tried to reach him on his phone. He took a leak, brushed his teeth, threw on some clothes, and then grabbed the disposable camera, rushing out the door.
It took him ten minutes to walk to the nearest CVS. On the way there, he considered all the ways in which he needed to get his life together if he were going to start dating a girl like Rafi. He should really start hitting the gym again, eating healthier, dressing better. His toe was poking through a hole in the top of his left shoe. I hope Rafi didn’t notice that in the dark last night. Maybe I should go shopping for new clothes this weekend, he thought.
The CVS was empty, aside from a middle-aged man standing in the allergy medicine aisle, and an elderly woman at the pharmacy counter.
“Excuse me,” Bart said to the young employee at the register. “I have this disposable camera that I’m trying to get developed.” He held it up so that the employee could see it. “I know you have—uh—photo machines here, right? How would I go about getting them developed?”
“Right over there,” the employee said, pointing his finger at a giant, unmissable sign that said CVS Photo. Underneath the sign, there was a little yellow Kodak kiosk.
“Oh, right,” Bart chuckled. “Sorry, I can’t see shit,” he joked, hoping to add a bit of levity to his blunder.
“Do you need assistance?” the employee asked, his concern overtaking his face.
“No, I’m not actually blind. I meant it figuratively,” Bart clarified, embarrassed.
The CVS employee shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. You just seem like you’ve never gotten photos developed before.”
“Oh, well in that case—yes, I do,” Bart replied. “Sorry, I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Yeah, the blackout was pretty wild,” the employee said, leaving the register and guiding Bart over to the kiosk. He explained the process, showed him how to use the machine, and before Bart knew it, the photos were printing.
“Thanks for your help. Have a good one,” Bart said to the employee as he left the pharmacy.
There they were in his hand—the memories of last night. He couldn't help but smile as he flipped through the photos: the park, the selfies, the hill, the view from The Crest. Together, they wove a story of two people connecting in the night, having fun, growing closer.
Rafi’s going to be so excited to see these, Bart thought. But he didn’t want to come across as too eager. I should wait a day, or maybe two. And then I’ll text her.
And so he waited, biding his time. That night, he did not go to the bar to see Larry, which he almost certainly would have on a normal Friday night, but instead, he purchased a copy of The Murder on the Links on his Kindle, and read late into the evening, until he could not keep his eyes open any longer.
The next day, Saturday, Bart set his plan in motion. He woke up, went to the gym, showered, ate a late breakfast, and hand-selected his favorite selfie from the photos. He took a picture of it with his phone and sent it to Rafi, along with the following message:
Hey Rafi! It was so much fun hanging with you the other night. I got the photos developed too! I’d love to take you out again and show you them, they’re so funny. Maybe Thursday or Friday night? Let me know if/when you’re around!
And then Bart waited, and waited, and waited. He anticipated that it might take her a while to respond. When they were together the other night, she hadn’t even checked her phone once. Where should I take her for the next date? Bart wondered. It was going to be difficult to top their first date.
And then around seven in the evening, Bart’s phone buzzed, and he saw that she had responded. He eagerly opened her message, which read:
Aw man, I had such a blast with you too! The selfie looks great LOL. And that’s very nice of you to ask, but I’m still boy sober :/ Best of luck to you, Bart! You’re a cool guy!
Bart placed his phone face down on the couch and glanced over at the stack of photos, which were sitting idly on the kitchen table. The setting sun cast a golden glow throughout the room. At least the cool, evening air would be coming soon, Bart thought, hoping to escape the heat.
He drifted to the window, absorbed in the sunset's farewell blaze, then gathered the photos from the table. His hand lingered above the opening of the trash can, poised to let the images fall, to wash the memories of that night like traces of tide on sand.
Yet, he couldn't release them. Instead, he closed the trash can, opened a drawer, and tucked the photos safely away. There they would remain, a memento of a fleeting moment, for just a little while longer.
He put on his shoes, grabbed his keys and wallet from the little bowl that sat on a table next to his door, and left his apartment. When he arrived at the bar, Larry was already mid-story, gesticulating and laughing with another regular.
“Listen, Doug, there isn’t a laser hair removal machine in the tri-state area strong enough to remove the hair from my sister’s upper lip,” Larry howled, throwing his head back in amusement. “Bart!” he exclaimed, turning his attention toward him. “Have a seat, bud. The usual?”
“Yes, thanks,” Bart replied, sitting down in his favorite stool—second from the left—and hanging his head in his hands, staring blankly at the liquor labels.
Larry placed the beer in front of Bart and started drying glasses with a dingy-looking rag. “How’d things go the other night?” he asked. “With the girl.”
Bart let out a long sigh. “I thought it went really well, but she said she doesn’t wanna see me again.”
“Ahhh, tough break,” Larry sympathized, patting Bart on the side of the arm. “As my father used to say, there’s plenty of fish in the sea, but until you catch one you’re just holding your rod.”
Despite his best efforts to remain unfazed, Bart couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle.
“Hey, keep your chin up. I’m proud of you anyway, kid,” Larry encouraged.
But before Bart could respond or say thank you, Larry had already turned towards a couple that had just sat down at the bar, asking them what they wanted to drink.
Bart gazed at his beer, the foam slowly setting, and waited patiently for Larry to tell another story.