“One more,” says the shadowed man, and he downs his drink like a lightning bolt to the brain, slams the glass on the bar and stares. The barman doesn’t say a word, because he knows the look and knows the white knuckled grip lost men have around bar glasses like lifesavers in stormy seas. “One more,” the shadowed man repeats, and repeats again, and still the barman says nothing but holds the bottle out of reach and watches the man watching him. There’s a cyclone in his eye and that white knuckled grip squeezes all the hope from life and the shadowed man takes another, and yet another then stops. The airport moves around him and he touches his shadowed hands in shakes to greying hair and a black suit and tie, wipes a tear from his eye.
“She was young,” says the shadowed man, and the barman pours another, because he knows a shadow’s pain.