More than My Bartender

I still remember the night this photo was taken – that’s me on the left. Of course this is not the real one. That one is stored safely in an album, in a box, in my memories. It was a night that was mundane – I was probably sad, I usually was. Broke, hating my job, worried I’d never find anyone who understood.

When I walked in, the bartender beamed – he always did; I never understood why. He said something about “the lights just got a little brighter.” He always said things like that, but not to everyone. He genuinely saw me.

He brought me my drink; I tipped him. It seemed transactional, but there was something more. Not sexual, not flirty, more real than that. We talked about the dancers, he asked about my work. He knew I struggled.

He was older than me – by about 30 years. I didn’t appreciate what that actually meant. He said he wanted a picture, of just me, to capture this night. This nothing night – I think it was a Tuesday. And now, this picture that he took reminds me what those 30 years really meant. Because it’s 30 years later.

He gave me the picture the next time I was there. I framed it. I thought it was cute. Months went by, chatting, going to a book store – just a book store. Chatting about his boyfriend, my longing for one. Never exchanging numbers, just random connections with him.

One winter night, I went directly to “my” stool in his section, but he wasn’t there. There was a stranger standing behind the bar. Where was he? Did he get the night off? I asked. I learned. I sobbed. Gone. No good-byes. I didn’t even know he was sick. The grief is still here.