The bar was full with people easing themselves into their next moment. He sat in the seat nearest the wall and felt comfort knowing the wall supported him. He rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. His fingers flared out slightly while he did this. He felt shame. His father would often rub his forehead the same way, telling the world how irritated he was. He closed his hand into a fist and set it on the bar. The rumbling of the men and women drinking and talking, seemingly without care, eased him. Looking at his closed fist he counted the scars on his knuckles. Remembering clearly where each came from. His beer was empty but he wouldn’t ask. He would sit and wait until the bartender asked if he’d like another. It was always this way. The rumbling went on and the wall wouldn’t leave him.
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