This was usually the hardest part of the night; it was time to choose. One last beer or one last sip?
He picked his mug up and brought it up to his eyes. He tilted it to one side and gazed at the seemingly golden liquid as it slowly collected on one side of the bottom of the mug. As he held his gaze, he noticed the thin white layer of bubbles on the surface of the liquid. It still hadn’t gone flat, it still had some life left in it. He tilted his head as his eyes followed a lone bubble, making its way to the surface of the liquid. It followed a straight path and easily became one with the white surface. There it remained, engulfed as a whole and indistinguishable in form. And with that, he brought the mug to his lips and took the last gulp of the night.
It felt good to be the last one to leave; to enter a place that is full of noise and to leave it when it is silent. He found something poetic about the whole thing.
He gave the old barkeep a weak smile on his way out as the man hobbled up to the table with a dirty white cloth to wipe it dry.
The cold breeze rushed into his face as he opened the door. The night was cold, just like his everyday struggle.
Walking down an empty street scared him. He wasn’t scared of being mugged or stabbed or anything like that, he was scared of something much more profound: running into somebody who had the ability to truly understand what he is.