The Bartender Who Pours Liquid Memories

The regulars don’t come for the booze—

they come for the way he slides a glass

across the polished oak and says,

*"This one’s from your father’s fishing trip, 1987."*

The amber liquid swirls with the scent

of diesel fuel and sea salt,

and suddenly you’re ten years old again,

watching him reel in a silver trout,

his laughter louder than the waves.

The woman at the end of the bar

orders *"Something from before the divorce."*

He serves her a misty cocktail

that tastes like porch swings

and unspoken apologies.

She drinks it slowly,

her wedding ring left behind

in a puddle of condensation.

Last call, a stranger requests *"The future."*

The bartender hesitates—

then pulls a bottle with no label,

pours a shot that glows faintly.

*"Drink at your own risk,"* he warns.

The liquid burns going down,

but the aftertaste is honey-sweet.

They say he never charges.

Just takes whatever memory

you’re tired of carrying

and locks it away in the cellar,

where the bottles hum

like a choir of might-have-beens.