We’d had quite the crowd tonight. Seemed the closer it got to St. Patrick’s Day the larger the draw. I’d been down a bartender, too, since my manager had the night off. Crazy didn’t begin to describe my mad rush to fill orders, to pretend I’d been listening to the patrons’ stories and, most draining, keeping the forced grin on my face. T-minus one week until the stupid holiday I hated most. Irish heritage be damned, if I never saw another shamrock the rest of my life, I’d consider myself blessed. Damp air, tinged with the threat of early spring rain, filled my lungs. At two a.m., the St. Louis streets were quiet, the night calm. Usually, this was damn near close the best part of the day. When I closed the pub and the noise cut out, it signaled my brain’s subconscious to trip the reminder of the meager happiness I had in life. It meant I could go home, meant she’d be there. I wasn’t a poor me kinda guy. I knew others had it much worse. Typically, I appreciated what I had and didn’t focus on what I’d lost.
