The Fall

The bar was as full as it ever was—the room filled with the smell of something alike to charred cabbage and the spice of cigarettes.

Doug Owen’s body was sore. He was tired... but he had nowhere better to be. No one to entertain or go home to. His brother stopped coming by to see him months ago, unable to make a connection with what Doug was gesturing with what he was trying to say.

His shift was a long one down at the mine’s today, and to say he was worn out was an understatement. Before he went back to his trailer for the night, he needed to have a date with an ice-cold beer.

As Owens makes his way through the poker room to the counter, he made eye contact with the bartender. He didn’t have to say anything to let him know what he wanted, and his old friend, the bartender, Ol’ Man Millard—as the other customers liked to call him—knew that he wouldn’t say a word. He couldn’t say a word... not after the fall.

Millard slides a cold one to him, grumbling a quick, “Here ya go, Doug,” before turning around and tending another drink for the guy sitting two stools down from the end of the countertop.

Doug takes a swig of the beer, trying not to cringe as he feels an uncomfortable twinge in his throat before he swallows. This was his least favorite brand, but he couldn’t get the Ol’ Man’s attention to switch it out much too easily.

He missed the talks they used to have.

After drinking for a good hour, Doug was just about ready to head out when a small group of women came up to the bar from the poker room. One woman in particular stood out among them, her auburn hair and blue eyes shining lightly under the cheap fluorescent lights in the bar. The two women with her, one brunette with a very pale complexion and one raven-haired women with bright green eyes, paled in comparison to the blue-eyed woman’s undeniable presence.

As Doug was staring quite openly, after ordering a glass of whiskey sour the redhead’s eyes fall on him and a little smirk plays on the corner of her lips as she takes note of her effect on him. She makes her way down the bar to him and takes a seat.

“What’s your name?” She asks, her voice soft and low. The woman’s voice was arguably just as attractive as her looks were.

Doug opened his mouth to answer, still accustomed and not able to break the habit, but closes his mouth after realizing that he can’t. His eyes grow wide as he realizes that he has no way to communicate with this woman. Despite his attraction to her, he had no chance.

“Don’t go looking to him for answers. He had a fall last year at the mines in that collapse that was all over the local news. He can’t say a word.” Ol’ Man Millard butts in, addressing the woman.

“Well, I didn’t ask you.” The woman says playfully to the bartender, before turning to Doug and asking, “You can write, can you?”

Surprised at the question, Doug smiles lightly in response and nods before the woman slides him a pen from his purse and the napkin from underneath her whiskey sour.

‘My name is Doug,’ he writes, then pauses for a moment before adding, ‘and you are beautiful.’