A piece of paper, the first one he’d removed from the envelope, was held against the bottom of the bar by the tip of one of his worn Converses. The more offending piece, it seemed, sat in the form of a square card. One that he’d look at, pick up, and set back down again between shots of whiskey. Lissa robotically poured another shot and placed it in front of Regan. I’d have done the same on any other night, with any other customer. Watching this exchange, however, made my skin crawl. I didn’t know what was in that envelope, but I knew that I hadn’t seen Regan drink more than a pint or two whenever he’d been in here. It’s quite a gap between that and shots of whiskey without much of a breather in between. I looked around at the cast of regulars surrounding the bar, wondering how many of them walked in here for the first time after a letter of their own. Sure, some were well-seasoned alcoholics, and the rest on their way. But, the first sip after a letter like that differs from the first sip ever.
