It was always the same. A dark bar, the scent of sawdust and stained wood, the taste of cheap liquor that burned even on the hottest of nights. It had been that way for years. Always the last two barstools, right against the wall; the ones that were cast into deep shadow. And it was silent, for a long time. The only sounds were the clink of glass against wood and sometimes the heavy sigh of men with too much on their mind. And then there would be quiet conversation, dark topics touched with violence and death and despair. Hushed voices would say those things that couldn’t be said at home, or in the light of day.

And the other patrons knew. They knew that if they came after dusk, the two stools at the end of the bar would be occupied by men in military dress. Silent men, one hard faced and slim, one broad shouldered and forever smiling in a tired fashion. And they knew better than to bother those two men.

In the very beginning, there had been more. After the bar there was an apartment. A bachelor’s den littered with dirty laundry and half-read books and dishes in the sink. And there would be cups of coffee, strong and black and hot to chase away the lingering numbness of the liquor. And there would be quiet conversation here, too. But lighter, and sometimes there would be laughing. And then there would be a bedroom, the bed never made and the linen sheets thrown back in a careless tangle. Sometimes they would be on the floor. But always, always there was the bedroom. And the bed. And then there would be the soft whisper of skin against skin, the hiss of clothing as it fell to the floor, the low murmuring of lovers as they fell against one another and names called out in the darkness. And even after the coffee, the taste of whiskey lingered on two sets of lips.

Even when that had stopped, there had still been the bar, and the two stools at the very end. The same stains from spilled drinks and misplaced cigarettes. And the quiet conversation, and sometimes there would be a touch that would end too quickly with hands snatched back as though burnt, and silence would fill that small space against the wall. But even that had been good, needed, wanted.

And then it had changed.

Now one man sat where two once drank, and there was no quiet conversation or awkward touches or silently shared companionship. Now there was only silence, and a slim man with a hard face drinking cheap whiskey alone, drinking as though there would be no tomorrow; drinking as though to drown.

And the other patrons knew. They knew not to bother the one military man who drank each night in solitude, and the barstool beside the soldier was left forever empty - waiting for a man who would never again join him.