He sipped the whiskey slowly, watching the amber liquid swirl in his glass like it was the last thing he could hold onto with his damned shaky hands. The jukebox had been full of the good stuff - that old-timey twangy heartache medicine, all night long. After finishing an old Waylon tearjerker, it churned out Hank Williams’ “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry,” a song that seemed to crawl into the marrow of his bones. It was a ditty that had been playing in the back of his mind for years, since she died. Diane’s birthday. He could feel her presence in the thick smoke clinging to the bar lights, her ghostly visage swirling behind the glass and seeming to encircle the neon cactus-graffiti light. She used to love that song, back when they were young and invincible, back before the world had worn them down like an old pair of work boots.
It was there, loaded and ready to bear in his truck, just waiting for him to make up his stubborn old mind. The doctors had given him a bad diagnosis—something about a heart too tired to keep beating the way it should. He thought about the days when he could still dance with her, when her laughter filled all their favorite barrooms. She could light up the darkest places. It was effortless. Now, the only thing left was the hollow ache in his chest and the constant thrum of mortality tapping at his temples.
He glanced at the young woman across the bar, her laughter reminding him of Diane in her youth, wild and untamed, almost uproarious, before the years pressed them down like stones in an ancient riverbed.
The young man beside her was shy, his hands hovering awkwardly around her waist as she swayed to the music. It caught his attention. His voice, rough as sandpaper, leaned over the bar and said, “Hey, kid. Don’t you hold back with her. Love her all the way. You don’t get this chance twice.” He didn’t know why he said it, but goddamn it if it didn't feel like the only thing worth saying. Tomorrow is never promised, not for anyone.
The young man blinked, unsure, and nodded, his fingers twitching; but the woman smiled at him like she knew. She knew.
The whiskey burned a little more on the way down, but still felt just enough like an old familiar friend. He paid Rick, the bartender, left him a decent tip, and shuffled his way out to the truck.
The sky hung heavy, like it had something to tell him. He opened the door to the back, looked at the shotgun he'd been staring at for weeks, then slid it back into its case. As he closed the latch, he looked up into the clear night sky and whispered to the space around him, “Not tonight, Diane. But goddamn, I miss you. It doesn't get any easier, darlin'.”
The world seemed quieter somehow, as if even the wind was listening. Or maybe it was just the whiskey.
The silence of a falling star
Lights up a purple sky
And as I wonder where you are
I'm so lonesome I could cry..
