Outposts in your Head

He poured some in the glass and glugged. He obviously hadn’t shaved in weeks. Probably hadn’t bathed either.  What is it with men, moods and chin hair? I wondered what women did when they were in a bit of a bother? Grew their nails and ignored their laundry? He hit me again. Harder this time. Staring at me with those wide brooding eyes. Mean one this fellow. But there was a sorrow in those mean eyes I hadn’t noticed. Like a lost dying star in a bright nebula. The bartender shot him a dirty look. Sitting at the back all these weeks, I’d noticed all the different types of drunks who walked into Mikey’s Bar. There were mostly four types I realized – the mean ones, the braggarts, the quiet ones and the singers. This one though, he was different. Mikey didn’t know what to make of this one. No one else did either. He was like a wolf in a pack of dogs. Lone; lonely maybe. But not out hunting.   He hit me again and again. Putting me down at last with a harsh sound