Death At The Bar

Death sat down at the bar. Told him I’d saved that seat for someone else.

Laying down his hat, he said, “But you never show up for anyone. And I'm here now.”

He lifts a bony hand, but the bartender knows his drink and slides it down.

From inside a long, tattered jacket, tucked under his ribcage, he pulls out an hourglass. Sets it down in front of me. Taps it to the rhythm of my slowing heart.

“Gettin’ low, friend.”

I smash the glass. Press the shards against his bony neck. Scream at him to leave me alone as the last of my life spills out in the bar. The other patrons bow their heads in prayer. Thankful it's not them. Yet.

Death ignores me. Takes a sip of his drink.

“Never could do what’s best for you.”

Leaning in, he lets the hourglass knick his spine. Taking my empty cocktail glass, he salts the rim with fallen grains. Orders me a margarita. I drain it in one gulp. Leave most of myself on the edge.

Taking the broken hourglass from my hand, he sweeps bar crumbs and the broken bits of my life back in. Lifts it close to his eye socket.

“Just enough time for another drink.”

He orders a couple of shots. Places one in front of me. Raises the other in a toast.

“Don’t worry, “ he says.  “It’ll kill you.”

Staring down at the glass, I almost push it away.

Almost.