The men at the bar were old and thin with moustaches that sagged down wrinkled faces. Their hands, when they grasped their drinks, were lined as the furrows in the earth they tilled and baked to the same colour. When they laughed, as they did now, it was at stories grown familiar by their telling. The bartender, who was still young enough not to have heard all their lies before, laughed too. He liked the old men and did not pity them, as others might, their age or their poverty.
One man did not join in the conversations at the bar. He sat alone behind a small round table covered with stained grease cloth, his wine untouched, the last ember of his cigarette dying in an ashtray. He held in his hand an envelope, yellow with age, from which he carefully removed and unfolded a letter. The men at the bar lowered their voices.
“The same letter every night.” Said one of the men sadly.
“I wonder what it says?” asked the bartender.
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“I could not. I only pour his drinks. You men are his friends, he would not take offence if one of you were to ask him.”
“He has not been our friend for years; he barely even speaks to us now.”
“Perhaps you insulted him in some way?”
“No, that is not the reason, that letter is the reason.”
The man at the table folded the letter neatly along well-worn creases and slid it back into the envelope. He sat, for a while, staring at the door with the look of a man who had accepted a fact without understanding it. He rolled a cigarette, lit it and watched the smoke weave its way to the ceiling.
“Do you remember when he received it?” One of the old men asked.
“Fifteen years ago at least.”
“Maybe it is from his wife or his son?”
“They were both dead by then.”
“A mistress?”
“He hardly looks the type to have had one.”
“The years change a man. Look at me, I used to have great muscles.”
“And hair!”
They laughed at this and, spell broken, turned back to their drinks.
The evening grew late and the old men began to leave. They gathered their coats, paid their tabs and walked, somewhat unsteadily, toward their homes. At last only the bartender and the man at the table remained.
“I would like to close up now” the bartender said.
“Of course,” said the man, as if awaking from a dream. “How many?”
“Two glasses.”
The old man stood and went to the bar. He took a few coins from a leather change purse and set them on the counter.
“Is that enough?” he asked.
“Yes.”
The bartender slid the money into a small tin box.
“You spoke about my letter tonight?”
“We speak about it every night.”
“And what do you say?”
“We imagine it to be filled with intrigue and heartache.”
“Maybe at one time but now, now it is only faint words on yellow paper.”
“Perhaps you should tell them?”
“Perhaps I would if they asked.”
“They are your friends and feel the letter drove you away.”
The old man thought about this for a while.
“No,” he said at last, “I did that.”
He put on his black coat and grey felt hat, taking time to adjust it on his head. The two men shook hands. The old man took the letter out of his pocket and placed it on the bar. The bartender’s eyes grew wide and he moved a step backwards.
With a faint smile the old man said, “It is too late for me to make new friends so it would be best if I return to my old ones.” He turned away and walked to the door.
“What am I to do with it?” asked the bartender.
The old man stopped. “Whatever you feel is right” he answered without looking back. He stood very still and listened. For a long time he heard nothing at all except for his own heart in his ears. The room was cold now and his breath hung in the air. A lifetime passed before he heard: a match was struck and flames caught paper. He turned his collar up and walked out into the night.