The Entrance
An elderly man with a silver beard steps through the heavy wooden door into the dim, warm light of the bar. Rain streaks against the glass panes behind him, distorting the city lights outside. He wears a dark, tailored suit that is damp from the storm. In his steady hands, he carries a triangle-folded American flag.
He moves toward the high wooden bar with a slow, deliberate pace. The bartender, a younger man in a crisp white shirt and dark vest, stops wiping the polished wood. He watches the older man approach, his eyes tracking the precise way the veteran grips the fabric of the flag. The man stops at the wooden stool, his fingers lingering on the sharp corners of the folds.
The Ritual
He gently places the flag onto the stool, ensuring the blue field of stars faces forward. The fabric sits stiffly against the worn leather of the seat. The bartender moves down the length of the bar, retrieving a bottle of amber liquid and a single glass. The older man sits down, his knees stiffening as he lowers himself onto the adjacent stool.
He reaches into his inner suit pocket with slow, precise movements. He pulls out a small, framed photograph. He turns it to face outward, placing it carefully on the stool right next to the flag. It is a black-and-white image of a soldier in uniform, peering out from beneath the glass. The bartender pours the liquid, the golden stream filling the glass to the brim. He slides the drink across the wood, his hand resting on the counter for a moment as he meets the older man’s gaze.
The Toast
The veteran grips the edge of the bar, his knuckles showing white against the dark surface. He speaks about the date, recounting the fifty-two years that have passed since that specific night. He describes how the flag was placed in his hands instead of his brother’s. The bartender nods, his shoulders dropping as he listens, his attention fixed entirely on the man beside him.
The veteran reaches out, taking hold of the glass with a trembling hand. He lifts it into the air, the liquid catching the overhead light. He holds the pose for several heartbeats, his eyes fixed on the empty space above the stool. The bartender follows suit, raising his own glass in a mirror image. The two men clink their glasses together, the glass ringing faintly in the quiet room. The veteran takes a sip, then places the glass back down beside the photograph.
The Departure
He stands up, his movements methodical and slow. He adjusts his suit jacket, pulling the lapels flat against his chest. He places a hand over his heart for a brief moment, a slight nod of his chin toward the flag on the stool. He turns toward the doorway, his silhouette framed against the rain falling outside.
He pushes the door open, stepping back out into the cool evening air. The bartender remains standing behind the bar, his hand resting on the polished wood. He watches the door swing shut, the latch clicking into place. The flag remains on the stool, perfectly positioned beside the framed photograph and the half-empty glass, undisturbed as the rain continues to fall outside the window.
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