The Standard Tissue

He sits by the bar, eyes weary from the extended hours of his day. Sorry excuses for Friday night friends dance, laugh and skip around him. Shallow company, but all so happy, so entirely happy.

Eventually he lets go. A little. Takes more frequent sips and occasionally, even a mouthful at one go. In a world of misfits, he fits in just fine.

The liars of tomorrow would tell him that his feelings, of whatever nature, are irrelevant and should not be considered. People come and go, walking right through you like you don’t exist. These people who think you insignificant should be then thought of as..insignificant.

The cycle repeats itself with no questions asked, because the stale but stinging awkwardness is just that good a deterrent.

One by one they approach, and he tries his best (not to detest but) to smile and exchange routine greetings that go nowhere.

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