Me? Well. Everyone knows me.
No idea where they met me but everyone seems to remember me from somewhere.
I’m not very memorable. I wear a suit. Dark in my corner. My red tie. My hat is usually on the table… sometimes I wear it, but not often.
I drink spirits and wines. The occasional beer but I prefer a good vintage white.
Sit and savour every sip and scent.
The tall glass I drink from is not clear but smokey. Clouded by wisps of smoke that seem to emanate from the cigarette I always have. No brand on them but a familiar smell. It gets a little stronger the closer you get to me.
I’ve been here a while. Since I can remember. I like it here.
We are all drawn to a place. Some of us realise why, others don’t. This place suits me and I am happy that I found it when I did.
Not much to live for I thought. It was a shame to admit it but I had little left now.
I went on. Not brooding, not sorry, not even unhappy. Enjoying the little things and relishing my life, even though it was aimless.
Then I found this place. Realised that it was where I was meant to be.
So I sat down in this corner, the barman looking up at me and smiling his smile, gave him a nod and asked for a bottle of red wine.
He gave me an ornate glass, it seemed to be woven around the centre and then out in to the base. Like it had melted upside-down and been re-shaped by hands. The smoke in it looking different from every angle.
He brought me the bottle, poured me a glass and went back to the bar.
I wanted to ask him to leave the bottle… but as I sipped my drink, listening to the band playing real slow and gently. I took a sip of my wine. Savoured it and then realised I would be making this glass last at least an hour.
The room is warm. Not hot. Warm enough to be nice but not enough to mist my glass while my wine is still cool.
The bottle will last me all night.
It’s a nice place. I’m quite happy here. It isn’t long later I realise why.
I go to the bathroom because I was meant to… not because I needed to. Perhaps I was drawn or realised something.
There’s a man on the floor.
I reach down, lend him a hand to his feet. Then I lead him where he needs to go. It’s not long before the barman comes in after me and sees the body the man left behind.
Perhaps it’s better to explain it this way: I am a death.
This is my station. My domain. My charge.
I like it here.
I am not the only death. I remember seeing a man on a road once, helping people cross. Leading somebody where they needed to go. I hadn’t realised at first that they were not flesh and blood.
The man had nodded at me. I nodded back. Long before I found this place.
I don’t wonder much. I don’t know where they go. There’s just mist from what I see. Perhaps I can’t go there yet. Perhaps they see more. But they are as drawn to it as I am to lead them there.
A man sits by me. I look at him.
I always wear the same face. The same expression. It’s not realy a smile but it’s nothing else either, so it’s a smile.
He sips his beer, watching a girl on the stage. Her voice smooth and gentle as the thick air.
I watch her too. She is very beautiful.
The man gets up when she stops, smiling at her and walking up to her as she steps away from the stage. I don’t hear what he says. But they are still smiling when they part.
After she sings again, she joins him for a drink at the bar.
Band still playing, a man on stage now. Singing the blues and sometimes just syllables and hums.
Yes. I like it here. It’s gentle.
The pain doesn’t bother me most nights. When it does I will call for another glass a little sooner. perhaps get through two bottles till the next night.
When day comes, most leave.
Once they closed the place. I remember the barman coming to me and motioning that I could stay. Afterwards he just opened the door and people began to leave.
When he got back, door opened and people came back in. no fuss. No hassle. Nobody asked, nobody needed to know why.
Club dead. My club.
I don’t own the place. We don’t know who does. But this place runs. It goes. It carries on and we are here. You, me, he, she, them, they… we just are.
Meet the man who is here. perhaps you see him, perhaps you don’t.
you preobably remember him but don’t know where from.
he sits in his seat, with his smokey antique glass and watches the club. watches it passing.
he is a Death