The Inevitable Barstool

The bar was half-empty, neon bleeding into the condensation on his glass. Marcus sat hunched over his beer, tracing the rim with his thumb, watching the bartender chip ice from a block, little shards scattering, melting before they hit the well.

“Funny thing,” he said, mostly to himself. “You don’t really pick a place like this. You just end up here.”

The old guy next to him—gray stubble, hands like he’d spent a lifetime fixing things—took a slow sip of his whiskey. Didn’t look over.

“Guess that’s one way to see it.”

Marcus exhaled through his nose, half a laugh. “Yeah.” He swirled the last of his beer, watched the foam collapse in on itself. “Guess it is.”