The bartender knows his father, or knew him, something close enough to slide the seltzer without writing it down.
Lime wedge bleeding on the rim. Television muted above the rail, a game no one turned off.
He keeps his jacket on the stool beside him. Ice settles in the glass the way a house does.
Two women laugh near the window, coats still on, waiting for someone better. He watches the door when it opens.
Old song on the speaker, first few bars. He asks for the check before the chorus.
The bartender waves him off.
Same time Thursday, she says, and he nods like he has plans, like Thursday matters, like the week has any shape at all.
Outside, the cold is free. He thanks it.