The music was dreary and sad. His reflection in the bar mirror matched perfectly, and he huffed a breath and stared into his glass. What was it, the third? Fifth? He couldn't remember. His brain seemed to be sinking slowly like sand in an hourglass; his thoughts brief sparks that died in the muggy air.

"Probably enough for one night, Mister Croft."

Bleary eyes lifted to study the bartender. "What's one night, Stan? I got nothin' else to do anyway."

"You've got a home and a bed, you should take advantage."

"Hah!" The bark was cynical. "Advantage. Been there, done that, Stan." He pushed the empty glass across the bar.

"I'll call you a cab, Mister Croft."

"Call me what you like, it's not going to make any difference. Nothing matters . . . I've nothing but time."

"Let me get you a coffee." Stan moved away.

"Nah! Just one more of these for the road."

Stan smiled sadly and shook his head. "Sorry, my friend, it's coffee or a taxi."

"How about an ear? Can I get an ear?"

Stan chuckled, shifting his shoulders. "It's not like I'm swamped with business, Mister Croft."

"Charlie. Call me Charlie, Stan."

"Okay, Charlie, you have my ear." He wiped the bar surface and leaned on his towel.

"It's a pretty pathetic tale."

"I'm waiting."

"I'm forty-two, Stan, just forty-two, and my life has peaked." Stan made to object, but was stopped by a raised finger. "No, I had an important job, lots of friends, and a wife, Stan – a beautiful wife. Then like the magician's rabbit, it all disappeared. All my fault. Success made my vision opaque, I thought I could do whatever I wanted . . . and I did."

Stan straightened up and exhaled. "Hold that thought, Charlie." A moment later he returned with a cup of coffee for both of them.

"I'm not drunk, Stan."

"Me either, it's just to make the conversation more convivial." He urged a toast, and they both took a mouthful. "So, you said you did what you wanted. Was that so bad?"

"It was the beginning of my end. I believed I was invincible. I could do what I wanted, say what I wanted, and go where I wanted." He turned the mug on the bar surface, staring into it. "I lost it all, Stan – all of it."

"Literally?"

"Yup, job, friends, and my wife. I rode my ego top speed into a brick wall and lost it all."

Stan refilled the cups and studied his customer. "I hear all kinds of domestic dramas, Charlie. Usually it's because one party is spending too much time in places like this instead of strapping on a tool belt and making the necessary repairs at home – you said you had nothing but time. Maybe that's how you should be spending it."

"Christ, Stan, I missed the last bus – it's too late." Charlie dropped his head, shaking it slowly.

Stan lifted his chin with a finger and stared into the red-rimmed eyes. "It's never too late, Charlie. You can still walk. You could even hitchhike. You just need to want to, and I believe down deep, you do."

"I- I don't know . . ."

"It can't get any worse, what have you got to lose?"

Charlie straightened up and looked pleadingly at the bartender. "You think?"

"I really don't know, Charlie, but what have you got to lose?"

The harsh laugh was brief. "Nothing else, I guess – how about one for my ego, and one more for the road?"