Her Hollow Eyes

She hated bars. They were cliché. Everyone goes to bars; they go to drown their sorrows, to let go, to forget about what they keep remembering. She didn’t want to be everyone.
And yet here she sat, on an old barstool, staring blankly ahead, clutching a nondescript beer bottle, night after night.
She wanted to drown her sorrows, to let go, to forget about what she kept remembering.
She didn’t used to be the type that hung out at bars.
Then again, she wasn’t sure what ‘type’ she was anymore.
So much had changed. So much was lost.
She sat. She sat and stared with her beer and her past, staring her in the face. Maybe the beer would help the past dissolve, at least a little.
A dark haired man sat down next to her and ordered something. She didn’t catch what it was.
He shot a glance at her, cautiously. As if she was going to bite.
She looked at him, then looked forward again.
They sat in silence, both aware of each other but not acknowledging each other.
She drowned her thoughts in amber liquid.
He left.

He certainly wasn’t the first to leave.

She left.

She came back the next night, sat in the same old barstool, clutched another beer bottle, and tried to stop thinking.
The dark haired man came back, too.
They sat. Drank. He left. She left.

It became routine. Every night they would sit, drink, and leave.
One night, he decided to speak.
“It’s cold.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Are you cold?” he asked.

You can’t imagine.

“Yes.”

She never looked at him, but she suddenly felt heavy warmth around her shoulders. His jacket. Leather. Well worn.
It smelled like him.

It smelled like him.

She felt the hot sting of tears behind her eyes, and shrugged the jacket off. It fell to the floor.
He said nothing. He leaned down, picked it up, and put it on.

Minutes passed. Hours?
She finished her beer and ordered a second.
The dark haired man was looking at her.
She looked at him.

“You’re hurt,” he told her.
She said nothing. She kept looking at him.
“I can see it,” he continued. “It’s in your eyes.”
“Is it?” she replied, tersely.
“They’re hollow.”

Hollow. Empty. Nothing left.

“Could be,” she said.
She turned back to face the bar, and stared straight ahead.
He turned, too.

He can see it?

He left. She left.

They came back the next night, like they always did.
This time, they didn’t look straight ahead the whole time. They looked at each other, sometimes. The glances were short, it was like they knew each other. He could see through her. She could see through him.
She started to anticipate these exchanges, almost nervously. Like an awkward teenager toying with a first relationship.
She couldn’t tell what they were. Friends? Maybe.

“Why are they hollow?” he asked, breaking the silence. “Your eyes.”

It’s not just my eyes.

“There’s nothing to fill them.”
“What used to fill them?”
She sat, silent.

He used to fill them.

He left. She left.

The next night, she found herself back at the bar, but not to forget. Not to let go, or to train her hollow eyes on a blank wall, or to drown her thoughts in amber liquid. She went back for the dark haired man.
She sat in the old barstool, and ordered a beer out of habit.
She sat.
She waited.
Alone.
The beer was gone before long.

They always leave.

She left.

The next night, she sat down, ordered a beer, and stared directly ahead.
Resuming the routine.
She was cold.
Suddenly, she felt a heavy warmth on her shoulders. His jacket. Well-worn leather.
She let it stay.
The dark haired man sat down next to her, in his usual spot, and ordered the drink he always ordered.
She looked at him. He looked at her.
In that moment, she felt more peaceful than she had in a very long time.

I need this.

“Your eyes,” he said.
“What about them?”

“They’re filling up again.”