There is an old man, sitting by himself at the
corner of the bar. He is already on his fourth glass of cheap white-wine. A solid gold ring sits too big on his old,
thin ring-finger and is face droops as his jaded eyes stare into the distance. Attempting to follow his gaze I realize that
he is looking at nothing in particular.
Perhaps he is looking back to brighter days; summer days with his family
at the beach, or even further, to the eyes of his bride standing at the altar. Whatever he is looking at, it is apparent it
is long gone.
Until next time,
Mike
