A Drink they Call Loneliness [open]
“Play us a song you're the piano man,” Sweeney sang in a raspy voice. He wasn't the greatest singer there ever was, but he was far from the worst. He was sitting on a bar stool at the closest bar to his apartment in a tshirt with a pole dancing woman’s silhouette on it and the words: I support single moms. His hair was mussed, but he didn't care. Really, he was just one step above scrub today.
Or perhaps wino since he'd started the day in the park with the bottle of rail whiskey wrapped in a brown paper bag. It was on his way home that he decided to have a drink and a bite of greasy bar food before going to pass out on his City furnished sofa.
Perhaps he was a little depressed. Perhaps he was just overly intoxicated, but his eyes were glassy as he sang along to the Billy Joel song blasting out of the jukebox. Funny, he wasn't usually one for mushy sentiment, even in music, but this song spoke to him. “Sing us a song tonight. Well, we're all in the mood for a melody and you've got us feelin' all right.”
Oh he was drunk. He was so ridiculously drunk. Sweeney rested his forehead in his hand and sighed before taking another lazy sip from his glass even though he wasn't sure there was even alcohol in it anymore. It was possible the bartender had started giving him some virgin mix that looked authentic, but it wasn't sweet enough to be straight soda. Even so, Sweeney was suspicious, but too drunk to do anything about it.