The Last Drink

“When I was a kid”, he spoke softly, “I liked clicking photographs.” The hearth had a fire and his hand, a glass of Whiskey. The air was cold and the chair rocked to his swing. “I also liked to be in them and smile for them but nobody cared to have me in their films.” He had a sly smile on his face. “Back then we used films, unlike today where it is instantaneous. Later, I grew tired of the want.” He paused to take a sip of the Whiskey. The fire couldn’t bring warmth and Whiskey took its place but only when it flowed through his chest. The cold outside kept growing on him.

“When people suddenly started wanting me in their photographs, my desired had waned and turned to contempt.” I guess, I will never be remembered, he thought. Colder. The skin and the muscles began to tighten. Slowly but surely. He was buzzed but he knew no better. He could see embers glowing on the hearth alongside the fire. Slowly but surely. “I guess, I had much vanity to ask. Or was it lack of trust? I do not remember.” I do not want to remember, let alone say it. Denial is a man’s greatest weakness.

He took a final gulp of the remnants in his glass and closed his eyes. Have no fear, it will be done. Face thyself in the eyes of thy lord. Face with a smile. I will never be remembered and perhaps behind the secret wish, I never wanted to be. Colder.

The fire quelled slowly and the body grew colder. The chair stopped rocking and the body rested, glass in hand. The room, empty as ever was.

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