“you ever seen a man drink himself backwards?”
i asked the barkeep, who looked
like regret in a vest,
polishing his way toward minimum wage.
“because i’m halfway there,
and i’m looking to reverse time.”
the ice cracked like gunfire
in my second double rye,
and the tv above me
blared some pre-election gibberish—
desantis limping,
trump smirking like a hyena
who just spotted a nation on crutches.
“you voting?” the guy to my left asked.
i shook my head.
“what’s the point? you ever see a man fix a toilet
with a handful of wishes and an empty wrench box?”
he didn’t laugh, just went back to chewing
his napkin.
two years ago—
christ.
two years.
i had the ticket,
the passport,
the fucking job offer in hand.
one-click from redemption.
amsterdam was waiting.
they liked my vibe.
they liked my cv.
they said “we’re excited to bring you on in the fall.”
i said “thanks,”
and then,
like a dumbass in a choose-your-own-adventure,
i picked page 37:
“turn it down, stay put,
and let everything good drift back out to sea.”
and drift it did.
first came the silence.
her footsteps stopped sounding like love
and started sounding like
she was measuring the distance to the door.
she left in spring.
took the books.
took the plants.
left the dog
that hated me.
then the job folded.
downsizing, reorg, some hr email that read
like a soft punch to the throat.
twenty years and they gave me
a link to cobra
and a pdf titled next steps.
“you still writing?” a friend asked last month.
i said,
“sure. obituaries. for all the versions of me that died.”
i sip the rye.
it burns like it knows me.
like it’s seen the alternate timeline
where i didn’t blink.
where i didn’t let fear
disguise itself as “prudence”
and whisper me back into the shadows.
“you okay?” the bartender asks.
“do i look okay?”
“no.”
“then you’re perceptive.
pour me another.”
somewhere in de pijp,
there’s a man who looks like me,
but he walks with purpose.
he bikes to class in the rain.
he argues about poetry over brown beer
and goes home to someone
who smells like orange blossoms
and makes soup from scratch.
he never opens a bottle alone.
but i’m not him.
i’m this.
this cracked glass
on a sticky bar.
this dusty voicemail from my ex that says,
“i really thought you’d go.”
this fucking year with no brakes
and a cliff just ahead.
you want a moral?
fine.
here’s one carved into spilled whiskey:
fate’s not some celestial gps.
it’s a busted compass,
a pen without a cap,
and a shaking hand
that signs the wrong form.
and when you do?
when you fuck it up?
no one comes to save you.
not destiny.
not your ex.
not the dutch.
just the bottom of the glass.
and it’s always empty.
