Free The 51st Thursday by Mercy Celeste Page B

them.
    He'd tried to stay away. Needed to stay away for his own safety. But today was the day. The one he'd been dreading all year. The one-year anniversary of the last day of his life.
    He couldn't stay away; he needed to be here at this bar tonight. He had no idea why. He had no idea why he needed to come here once a week every week since the first one after that night. He had no idea why this bar had called his name that first Thursday. He just knew he needed to dull the pain, and the quiet of his loft apartment was killing him.
    Her things were killing him, damning him as they taunted him. Her scent still lingered on her pillow and her books still lay on the coffee table where she'd left them. His skin had begun to feel too tight that night. He couldn't swallow, his eyes so dry it felt as if a million tiny cactus stingers had been shoved beneath his eyelids.
    Then he'd been within walking distance. Or hobbling distance, since his leg was fractured. All he knew was he had to get out and he had to get a drink or he was going to do something dire, like burn the place down.
    He found Deacon's Place after passing by two other dives. Funny, it was on the same street as his apartment and he'd never noticed it before. The door was open and music spilled out into the street. The glass windows draped with green curtains on brass rods couldn't contain the light that filtered out. There was laughter and song and that's where he wanted to be, in a warm, inviting place with laughter and song and life.
    The bartender had given him hell. Did he really look stumbling drunk? After a few moments, he got a beer and for the first time in a week he didn't feel numb. This incredible sensation of calm came over him as he watched the bartender work the room. The waitresses swarmed around him, people smiled at him, told him dirty jokes, and he told them to shut the fuck up, there's ladies present. And once when an old Bob Seger song came on the juke he sang along, loudly, and surprisingly not too badly.
    "Beautiful Loser". He put the song on his iPod after he went home and some nights afterward he put it on repeat. He found himself there the next week, and the next. The beers were cold, the music good, and the people friendly without being pushy. The bartender recognized him each time, and each time he pulled him a tap without asking before he went about his business. Sometimes he sang. Other times he yelled. Once he threw a chair at a drunk. There was that one time when Shelby drank too much and let a couple of punks try to hustle him. He'd thrown both Shelby and the punks out. When they'd got the best of him in the parking lot he tossed him in a cab and told him, "Nice job, dude," and sent him home.
    Somehow, over the year this place had become his anchor. After a grueling week in the rat race, Deacon's Place became a safe haven for him.
    He drank his beer and watched the weather on the television overhead, his gaze following Deacon as he placed chairs on tables and moved fragile things away from the windows. He was surprised to look up after his second beer to find himself alone in the place. "Guess it's time to go home," he said, pulling out his phone to call a cab.
    Deacon looked at him in that way that used to make him nervous, and shrugged. "There's still a half hour before I lock the doors. No hurry." He handed him another drink and went back to cleaning up.
    The cab company refused to send out a car. Damn, he hadn't thought of that. If he still lived in the studio down the street it would be fine, he'd just walk home. If he'd listened to that warning that said driving downtown in a squall wasn't a good idea, he'd be safe at home watching the weather on his own TV. No, he'd had to drive all the way out here and now he was stranded because he couldn't be alone tonight of all nights.
    "The cabs aren't running then?" Deacon startled him after he threw his phone on the bar in disgust. Deacon leaned on his elbows on his side of the wooden