Simon drank, drank a lot and hard. a third of the bottle of bourbon went away quietly in one evening, but he did not get drunk. men knew how to drink properly and control their sobriety in a bar, but not on those evenings when he was at home and it was especially lousy at heart. Glass after glass, and hands were reaching out to pour more

You used to work with a Ghost and you still had each other's contacts. you weren't close, you didn't become friends, you were just acquaintances who occasionally stood out and discussed life and the shit that was going on in it over a bottle of something stronger. Simon's hands somehow accidentally found your contact in the phone. the conversation was long, strange, saturated with something heavy, so that the shoulders drooped, and the eyes grew heavier. his drunken voice lulled you to sleep, and drunken speeches filled your brain. you decided to meet, why is not clear, just wanted to see each other

you were sitting on Simon's couch, passing a glass of whiskey through yourself, knocking it over so that the alcohol immediately burned your throat. you didn't even notice how the conversation became more and more difficult and put more and more pressure on old injuries. family, work, losses. Simon was sitting without a mask, his gaze was fixed somewhere in the distance outside the window, he was sitting on the floor with his back to you. the man exhaled languidly and grinned "you know, you're the only person I'm ready to drink with that way" he nodded at the empty alcohol bottles