Here I am. Alone again. Phillie’s is usually quiet during this hour, and I enjoy the sound of Jeff working though his closing routine. He hums sometimes. He tells stories about the crazy customers he had that day.
The big windows let me look out at the deserted streets. They give me a strange kind of comfort, like I’m not the only hollow thing left when the day ends.
Besides Jeff and I, there’s a young couple in the corner. They’re chatting in a grotesquely sappy way that makes the pit in my stomach stretch wider—too wide to eat. So, I soothe it with one more shot of whiskey and drift out the door. The warmth fills me up, numbing the ache, for now. It’ll return, holding hands with a hangover, ready to remind me what I already know. For now, I just need it find my way home.
Light sneaking through the bottom of my curtain drills into my skull. My brain throbs like its being chipped at with an ice pick. I really could use a lobotomy ironically enough. Somehow, I’ve made it home. Still in my suit. I manage to slip off my shoes and groan as I sit up, slow enough to avoid falling into another dimension.
Why does it always go like this?
You’d think after years of this routine the hangovers would lose their sting. But no—every morning feels like I’m waking up on the floor of a fraternity.
Where the hell is the aspirin? And what the is the sun so fucking happy about to be shining this brightly?
I stagger to the bathroom, peel off my clothes, and collapse into the shower. I sit beneath the running water, letting it pour over me. I could stay here forever, but I’m expected to play my part. Just another cog in the corporate machine.
Two glasses of water, a slice of toast, and some scrambled eggs later, I stuff myself back into a suit, knot the corporate noose, grab my briefcase, and head out the door.
Janice isn’t fazed by the sight of me. She’s waiting with coffee, reciting my schedule with mechanical grace while following me into my office. She draws the blinds like the peroxide-blonde angel she is. Red lipstick. Tight skirt. Heels too tall for any sane woman. A magnificently sour attitude. She’s a godsend. She closes the door behind her, cutting off the phones and chatter. Thank God. Just me and the numbers now.
Six hours later, I want to jump out the window, but apparently that sort of thing is frowned upon, so I finish my spreadsheet, lock up my desk, and head back to the only place that feels like anything close to peace.
Janice is still on the phone, tossing out sass like confetti. She waves me off with a flick of the wrist that’s half farewell, half pest control. I adore her. She’s beautiful in a stomp-on-someone’s-throat kind of way.
The sun has finally given up and the evening air is crisp. When I step into Phillie’s, Jeff’s face lights up. He sets a whiskey down at my usual seat before I’ve even sat.
“Burger tonight?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah,” I say, dropping myself into the barstool and my briefcase on the floor with a thump.
Jeff is a comfort in this gray-tinted world. That smile of his—honest and unbothered—makes something ache in my chest. He’s not pretending. That’s what makes it worse. Or better. I’m not sure anymore.
This place belonged to his grandfather. When Phillie passed, Jeff took over. He’s been running it for six years now, keeping the retro charm fresh for the new crowd. Sometimes I feel like a relic myself—some old creep among soft-skinned kids who barley look legally allowed to drink, but I keep to myself. I drink. I watch.
The whiskey’s warming me up, and it’s starting to hit—hard. I’ve downed six already. Bad idea, maybe. Today’s been rough though.
I wonder if Jeff knows how much his smile means. How it salvages entire days. The way he laughs when I stumble out the door—it’s not cruel. It’s the kind of laugh that pulls you in, tells you that you’re not the joke. That we’re both in on it. Like he sees life for the ridiculous thing it is and still laughs. Every time. Like its new.
I wonder—has he ever thought about ending it? It feels like such a normal part of being alive, but what do I know? I’m drunk. God, I’m drunk.
Where’s my burger?
I look up just in time to see Jeff coming toward me with that smile like he’s read my thoughts. I’m grinning like a fool. Can’t help it. I’m starving, and there he is—him and that damn smile.
I can’t imagine this place without him. I can’t imagine me without him. Oh, that’s a dangerous line I’m walking. I’ve definitely had too much to drink tonight.
He places the basket down, slides a bottle of mustard next to it. It’s our game. He remembers everything and I tell myself its just customer service. Nothing more.
I devour the burger like a man possessed. I’ve missed lunch, and the booze is making me ravenous.
When the last fry is gone and I’m too full to breathe, I lean back on the barstool, swivel around, and rest my elbows on the counter. I stare at the quiet street outside.
In the moment, the loneliness isn’t sharp. It softens into solitude. I’m not drowning. I’m floating.
I just wish I didn’t have to be drunk to feel this way.