The amber liquid swirled in Leonard's glass like a slow-burning fire.
He sat hunched over the dimly lit bar counter, the scent of aged whiskey and wood polish hanging in the air like a fog he couldn't escape. The hum of low jazz music spilled from the overhead speakers, mixing with the low murmur of scattered patrons and the occasional clink of ice. But all of it sounded muted to Leonard. Distant. Like a life he was no longer part of.
The whiskey burned down his throat in a sharp line, but it wasn't enough. He poured another from the small bottle the bartender had left at his request. His eyes were unfocused, staring at the glass like it held some kind of answer. Like if he drank enough, he could drown the image that kept replaying in his mind—Miranda on that bed, half undressed, her lips locked with someone else's.
He lifted the glass and tipped it back again.
Another burn.
Another bitter taste.
Another failure.
