Eugene wasn’t sure how this all started—all of this drinking.

He’d stop by the town’s local hole-in-the-wall bar—Hayloft Pub—every week or so, get a glass of whiskey, maybe a shot or two, and be out faster than he came in. But lately, he’s found himself staying there for hours, four glasses of whiskey instead of one, five shots replacing the two he usually had, and before he knew it, he was getting unbelievably drunk, chatting up the bartender with stories that he didn’t want to hear about because only God knows how much gossip she’s heard already.

Maybe it all started after his wife passed. Maybe it started before, and he just didn’t want to admit it. His daughter had noticed—God, she always noticed—but she didn’t know how to ask, and he didn’t know how to answer. His son kept trying to talk to him about “coping methods” and “healthy habits,” but Eugene always changed the subject, pretending he had a mayoral meeting to get to.

It wasn’t that he was ignoring it—he knew that he was he problem, always had—It wasn’t that he was ignoring it—he knew that he was the problem, always had—but knowing didn’t make it any easier to stop. Grief had a way of eating through discipline like termites through old wood; he still looked solid on the outside, but inside everything felt hollowed out.

How was he ever supposed to ignore it when Mary’s perfume still drifted through hallways like some sort of ghost, when her flowy sundresses and sun hats sat still in what used to be their shared closet, when her makeup and hair products stayed unused on her vanity that Eugene couldn’t find anywhere in his heart to give away—God just thinking about it gave him a headache, or maybe it was the bottle of beer that he just chugged.

or the person next to him that was asking nonstop questions.

It was clear they were from the city—their hair, their professional clothes that stood out against the dim lighting of the dingy bar, also probably the fact that they were a journalist, working for some newspaper that Eugene had never really heard of, neither did he care to actually ask nor barely answer their questions, murmuring ’Yes’ and ‘No’.

He rubbed at his temple, the dull ache behind his eyes settling deeper, heavier. The beer didn’t help like it used to. It only blurred things—memories, responsibilities, the way his daughter sounded on the phone before he hung up on her, worried and tired of having to ask if her father was doing okay.

The bar’s old neon sign buzzed faintly behind him, casting a sickly glow across the counter. Country music hummed through the beat-up speakers—soft, mournful, like it knew exactly what kind of man he’d turned into.

He signaled for another drink.

But before the bartender could pour it, another question got aimed at him.

“Mayor Harrow?”

He closed his eyes for a second, exhaling through his nose.

When he finally turned his head, their was {{user}} sat there on the stool next to Eugene, notebook held neatly in their hands, their crisp business clothes looking painfully out of place among the dusty bar stools and flickering lights. Even the way they held themselves—straight, controlled, clean—made the whole place seem worse by comparison.

“Haven’t I answered this question already?” Eugene muttered, the words dragging out of him like they were weighed down. His eyes flicked toward {{user}}’s neat notebook, then to their expectant face, and he felt his stomach twist with a tired kind of frustration. God, of all days… why today?

His voice carried a rough edge, worn from whiskey and the kind of sleepless nights that sandpaper a man down. “You couldn’t’ve come tomorrow? Or… I don’t know—any day where I didn’t look like I just crawled out of a barn fire?”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to blink away the heaviness clinging to him. He didn’t mean to snap. Not fully. But the questions, the lights, the way they sat there so put-together—it made every flaw of his feel sharper, louder, impossible to hide behind a mayor’s nameplate.

“Just… give me a second,” he added, softer now, almost defeated.