David and Frank

"Are we departing soon?" David inquired with a despondent tone, his voice barely piercing the low murmur of the bar.

"Not quite yet," replied Frank, his tone amicable yet underlined with an authority that quelled further inquiry. He leaned back, rhythmically drumming his fingers against the worn bar tabletop, his gaze meandering through the room as though it still held vestiges of mystery that must be unearthed.

David, however, scanned the bar with a detached familiarity. The same room he had inhabited countless times, so ingrained in his memory it was the first image to greet him behind closed eyes. Yet, somehow, the room retained an air of obscurity, its meaning diluted by the banal repetition of evenings indistinguishable. As we know, it is often the most unremarkable moments that are the most elusive in recollection. The streetlights outside pierced the thick night, casting elongated shadows through the grimy windows. The light projected a faint glimmer onto the ceiling, where a rusted hook hung from an aged beam—a relic of forgotten purpose. Its presence was central, captivating David with a vague unease. He stared, entranced, as though it harboured a secret lying just beyond his grasp relating to him.

"I love this place," Frank interjected into David's introspection, as he often did, his voice breaking through David's thoughts. "It reminds me of the good times."

David blinked, the hook lingering in his peripheral vision. "How long have we been coming here?"

“Twenty, thirty years?” Frank speculated, the margin so broad it highlighted how irrelevant Frank thought the question.

"It feels longer," David murmured, his tone so chillingly resigned it might have stirred doubt in even the most steadfast optimist.

Frank laughed lightly, brushing off the encroaching darkness. "Haha, I love when you joke. We always have a grand time together. That’s why we’ve remained friends all these years."

David forced a smile, strained and joyless. "What are we even sitting here for?"

"The band will start soon," Frank said, his enthusiasm unwavering. "Then we’ll be back in the swing of things."

David scanned the smoke-laden room, the haze seeming denser than before, nearly suffocating. "Do you think anyone minds us sitting here without ordering anything?"

Frank grinned. "You needn’t concern yourself with the opinions of others."

David’s brow furrowed. "Then what should I concern myself with?"

“The world conjures up enough worries on its own. Seeking them out serves no purpose. Our task is to bear what we must,” Frank replied, waving his hand dismissively as if to brush away unseen burdens. "Besides, the bartender’s nowhere to be seen. How can I order when there’s no one to serve us?"

David’s gaze drifted back to the hook, its presence looming like some cosmic absurdity. He felt its pull, a morbid fascination stirring within him. "Ah, here comes the band, only slightly late," David muttered under his breath. "Everything will be fine now. Not fine," he paused, "but as it was."

The musicians materialized from the shadowy corner, their faces blurred by the omnipresent haze. Even when the smoke cleared momentarily, their expressions were vacant, as though they played merely out of obligation. The music commenced, solemn and melancholic—at least to David’s ears. Meanwhile, Frank beamed, tapping his foot in time with the rhythm.

"Do you know how to whistle?" Frank asked abruptly, leaning towards David with that irrepressible glint of optimism.

"No, I don’t," David replied, uncertain where this was leading.

"Perhaps we could learn while we wait for the barkeep," Frank suggested, as though whistling were a fitting antidote to the monotony.

David’s lips curled into a faint smirk. "No, it would take too long."

Frank raised an eyebrow, undeterred. "Well, I'm open to suggestions?"

David leaned forward, a sardonic smile stretching across his face—the most significant expression Frank had seen from him in years. "We could kill ourselves!"

Frank stared, his grin faltering, unsure if David was jesting or if something darker lay beneath the surface. "Where would you suggest we hang ourselves?"

David’s eyes flicked toward the ceiling, his gaze fixated on the hook—a morbid beacon. "The hook," he murmured, his voice laced with a manic amusement. "It’s perfect."

Frank followed David’s gaze, his laughter resurfacing, tinged with an uneasy edge. "The hook works, but what about a rope?"

"I’ll try to remember to bring one," David replied with a hint of despair.

"I don’t own any rope; you’ll need to bring it tomorrow," Frank declared, shaking his head. The conversation had veered far from what he’d anticipated, yet somehow it felt predestined.

"Suicide is our final escape, it is the only philosophical question" David’s voice was calm, disturbingly so, as though he were discussing the weather.

Frank chuckled once more, though his laughter now carried a tinge of trepidation. He shifted in his seat, his foot still tapping to the music, though more frenetically. Just then, a shadowy figure emerged behind the bar. "At last, the barkeep has returned. We can have our drinks and avoid our demise. I told you everything would be fine."

"Good," David replied. It appears some optimism had brushed onto our hero. "Now I don’t have to worry about forgetting the rope" he added.

Frank nodded, smiling. "As you said, David, suicide is our failsafe—a button we can press at any time. There’s no sense in pressing it today. It’s wiser to wait until everything collapses entirely; even then, it seems folly to exit at the nadir, denying ourselves the possibility of a resurgence."

David’s gaze remained fixed on the hook. The musicians played on, expressionless, the sombre notes resonating through the thick haze. Time seemed to stall, each moment weighed down by an oppressive inertia. Only the hook hung steady—a question without an answer, a contemplation that could find no resolution.

Frank resumed his cheerful façade as if to draw David back from the abyss. "It’ll be fine, David. Everything will be fine."

"Fine?" David echoed his voice barely a whisper. "No. It’ll be as it was."