UnBaed

why

A woman walks into a bar. Presumably, she did not just appear there. Presumably she opened the door from the outside and entered it. Presumably she drove to the bar. Presumably she had obtained the car she used to drive to the bar somewhere, presumably with money. Presumably she had received that money somehow. She presumably had spent days, months, even years before this moment. Presumably she was born at some point, to a mother – presumably. Presumably she was a child once. There had been years spent in which she could not completely feed herself. There were years in which she was smaller, and stayed all day in rooms where adults taught her to be similar adults to the adults they were. There was a first kiss, nights spent in terror of the nights to come, the first vestiges of independence, moving out, finding a job, a decision – at some point – to go to the bar. Presumably.

“Can I have a drink?” she said to the bartender.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the bartender. “This is the end of my shift. Ed will be out in a moment and he’ll be able to help you.”

The bartender left the bar. Presumably he opened the door. Presumably he got into a car. Presumably he drove home, the radio on and playing him through the soft-focus darkness of hot night. Presumably he had a bed somewhere, got into it, slept, and – presumably – dreamed. Presumably he grew older, day by day, and looked at each day as a missed opportunity to live a life that was in no way better than the life he was living, but just different. Presumably he edged toward death, fearing losing what he had, regretting ever attaining it. There was a last kiss, everything was forgotten, but in pieces, and in the most painful order. New things were learned slowly, and in the least helpful order. A basket of fruit indicating a sentiment too weak, communicated too late, to a person who was already gone. Presumably.