Bleeding Lights on Wet Pavement

Leo watched the rain fall, splattering against the grimy window of The Hideaway. Each drop smeared the neon 'OPEN' sign across the street, turning the crisp red into a pulsing, liquid bruise. The air inside the bar was thick with stale beer and unspoken histories, a smell Leo knew better than his own aftershave. He took a drag from his cigarette, the cherry glowing hot, then faded. Another Tuesday night. Another storm rolling through the city, washing the grit into the gutters, leaving the asphalt shiny and black.

The bell above the door jingled, a reedy sound that barely cut through the low thrum of the jukebox. Mark walked in, shaking off his coat, droplets flying. He wasn't smiling, just gave a curt nod, his eyes scanning the room, landing on Leo. No need for words. They'd been doing this for thirty years, since they were skinny kids sneaking into dive bars that were probably cleaner than this one. Mark slid onto the stool beside him, ordered a whiskey, neat, and gestured to the bartender to leave the bottle.

"Rough one out there," Mark said, his voice a low rumble. He wasn't talking about the weather. Leo knew that. He just grunted, took a long pull from his own glass. The whiskey burned, a familiar comfort. He didn't look at Mark, kept his gaze fixed on the distorted red light across the street, watching it bleed into the pavement. "They're saying another week like this."

Mark poured himself a second shot before the first was even half-down. "How's the boy?" he asked, not quite a question, more a statement of shared concern. Leo's son, Danny, had been struggling. Again. Different struggle this time, same gut-punch feeling. Leo squeezed his glass. "He's… trying. Says he's got things figured. Says he's gonna get a job, something steady this time."

The words felt hollow even to Leo. Mark just nodded, a slight, almost imperceptible dip of his head. He didn't offer platitudes. Never did. That's why Leo was here. That's why they always met like this, in the sticky silence of places like The Hideaway, when the weight got too heavy to carry alone. Mark knew the hollowness, probably felt it himself sometimes. They both had kids who were ghosts in their own lives, flickering in and out, leaving behind a trail of broken promises and unpaid bills.

They sat there for a long time, the whiskey disappearing, the jukebox cycling through forgotten country songs. The rain outside seemed to intensify, drumming against the glass, an insistent beat. Finally, Leo pushed his chair back. "Gotta walk this off." Mark didn't argue. He just finished his drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and followed Leo out.

The instant they stepped outside, the city hit them. Cold, wet air. The smell of exhaust and wet concrete. And the lights. Every neon sign on the block, every streetlamp, every passing car headlight, all of them fractured and stretched across the puddles on the sidewalk. Deep blues, angry reds, sickly greens, all swirling together like oil in water. Leo looked down, watching his worn boots break the reflections, sending ripples across the smeared colors.

"He called again today," Leo said, his voice barely a whisper against the rain. "Needs money. For rent. Says he'll be on the street otherwise." He didn't look at Mark, kept his eyes on the warped reflections. The shame, it tasted like rust on his tongue. He'd given Danny money countless times. Each time, a promise that this was the last. And each time, a lie they both believed, for a little while.

Mark just walked beside him, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. He kicked at a loose stone, sending it skittering into a particularly vibrant puddle of purple light. "You gonna do it?" Mark asked. No judgment in his voice, just a question, hanging in the wet air. Leo sighed, a ragged sound that felt ripped from his chest. "What else am I gonna do? He's my boy."

They walked on, the city's neon blood bleeding into the puddles, reflecting back a distorted, glittering world. The rain kept falling, ceaseless, blurring the edges of everything. Leo felt the cold seep into his bones, but also a strange, hard resolve. He'd figure it out. He always did. He'd always take the hit. He glanced at Mark, who was looking straight ahead, face grim in the shifting light. Mark caught his eye, gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. A silent acknowledgment. A shared burden. They kept walking, past the flickering signs, the cars hissing by, leaving trails of light on the wet street.