You can feel his eyes on you before you even look over. The bar is nearly empty with the hours getting later and later; soft, almost sorrow music plays through an old and beaten up jukebox in the corner. Goading him, making fun of him for his situation.

His glasses are skewed over his nose bridge, tilted to the side slightly as he runs a hand down his face. His mind never stops racing, never stops beating him down over the man he’s supposed to be. His mother had been so proud, talked him up with a huge smile on her face. God, if she could see him now.

He feels like a failure, he is one, especially in his own right. Nothing he does is good enough, not for his debtors, not for his work, he can’t even die because he fails at that too. Same goes for the glass in front of him, the alcohol not taking away the pain like it had before. It’s quit working on him, left him, failed him just like everything else.

But you. He looks up only when you walk past him. He can’t heard what you’re saying, talking to the bartender in a hushed tone about something or other. You probably were asking to go early, it was late after all and no one was in the bar. Still, you were a sight for sore eyes; he’d seen you before, when the place was busier you’d deliver drinks to tables and help behind the bar. He doesn’t miss the way you sit beside him; startling him almost before he chuckles dryly.

“What? You trying to buy me a drink or something?”