#modexme

“A bartender, eh?” Blythe asks, questioning the obvious. “I’ve got to imagine with a job like this you run into a lot of fucked up people.” He slurs, the words rolling off his tongue as the look of sobriety fell from his features. He was a regular bar hopper, rarely sticking with one place for a period of time, but he ought to step out of his shell sometime. It got too dark in there. And his therapist prescribed an undesirable amount of external communication.