The Strange Man At The End Of The Bar

I saw the strange man. Whenever he bent over to tie his shoes, he fell off the bar stool. Then he’d say: "I’ll never learn to play the piano if I keep going this way". And then he would start crying, tears reflected the neon kissed glistening unwiped beer on the bar. I sent over the drink and bartender laid the turquoise [bad word] on the waiter’s tray. He took it straight away to the strange man at the end of the bar. He sat there, holding three ice cubes in a wet napkin pressed to his [bad word] forehead, both of his shoes untied. There was no… no piano… no piano on the place, there was no hesitation on his face. He put that drink away, post-taste. You could see turquoise drink gradually infuses extremities. You could actually see it, like bearing mould, like liquid road flare. "I’ll have one of those", I said to the bartender. "The drink's not bad" - I said to the man with swollen forehead. "You ever thought about wearing loafers?" His fingertips glowed, so did mine. They reflected golden green of the wet bar. My mind felt like a downtown street on a very clear day, with the notion of newspaper confetti raining down and down… and piling up all around.