The bar played in notes of e-minor
She was drunk. And feeling melancholy. She ordered a Manhattan. Extra sweet, neat. She was disappointed that they didn’t put the cherry on a pick, rather it sunk to the bottom. Stemless. And alone. The bar was crowded. She watched the patrons move collectively towards the bartender as she raised her hand. A beckoning of spirits, as it were. And there was so much optimism. She tried to not be cynical. She looked for hope in their voices, their eyes, the way they ordered their drinks. And in their small talk. It was difficult to not notice the human condition sitting stoic behind them in a corner booth, smoking its green menthol down past the filter. But she tried. She dug out the cherry drowning in amber with her fingers. She didn’t care how vulgar or desperate it looked. Because maybe she was. She was old. Or older than them, she knew. She had a loud heartache. The kind that comes only from having so many chances, offering her love to anyone who would take it. And they did. And after a while, there was nothing left to return. She wished she would have ordered her drink on the rocks now. She could have chewed and sucked on the ice as a way to bargain with time. But she was done. On all levels. The marrow of her cocktail ran dry, and she left. Leaving behind another generation, it seemed. One smiling blindly into the same spotlight that took her last breath. And their hearts cried out.