Sometimes a man has got to do, what a man has got to do.

 LEAVING

Tom Miller

He sits sideways in the chair
His back against the wall.
His left arm rests on the small table,
His right arm hangs loosely over the back of the chair,
A bottle of beer in his hand.

He studies his friends at the tables near him.
They are seated casually in awkward silence.
Each is looking intently at something,
Avoiding any eye contact with anyone.
Tense.  Nervous.  On edge.

He can feel it in them.He has known them for the better part of five years.
He has made love to a couple of the girls.
Been angry with most of the bunch at one time or another.
Shared laughter and sadness, sometimes even joy.
Been drunk with them all.  More than once.

He loves them.

The bar room where they hang out
Is unusually quiet now.

Tomorrow is Wednesday.
It is the first Wednesday that he will get out of bed
With no expectation of seeing any of them.
And again on Thursday.
Then Friday.
And probably never after that.

He pushes off the table and chair
And rises suddenly, startling them.
He places the bottle on the table.
They all look at him intently as
He fastens the bottom snap on his jacket.

“Where you goin’, man?” one asks.

“Gonna start bein’ somebody else.” he replies softly.

Then he turns and walks out the door.

— Tom Miller

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