You see a man at the bar. A handsome man who appears stricken.

He sits there, the tawny countertop glistens with the artificial wood texture. Colors of attractive signs—intended to draw sad alcoholics in from the cold unwelcoming streets—flicker, creating an ambient lighting. It’s a work of art, not a scene made to look ‘nice’—but to make you feel.

He taps the bar and orders a drink. A whiskey on the rocks—you hear him mutter something about Arsenic working too. The bartender comes back and informs him his card has been declined. The man’s shoulders slump, he was a fool to think this night couldn’t get any worse. “Sonuvabitch….” The man sighs and snatches the card back between his index and middle fingers

The bartender looks apologetic for a fleeting moment and then walks away to tend to a patron with a probably functional card.

The moneyless man pinches his nose bridge in irritation, his head hanging low.

If anyone needed a drink in this bar, it seemed like he did.