It's 2:13 in the afternoon at the end of March. Peter has been sitting at the bar for almost three hours. It's been six days since his father's death and it's the one place that he thought would not remind him of what he's lost. However, like a feckless love, grief has no boundaries and walked through the door.
Peter had always thought about, and ever dreaded, the death of his father but never really thought about what he would do the day after. Like his father's failing heart, those thoughts stopped at the moment of death.
He nodded toward the bartender for another bourbon and quickly tossed it back, relishing the sting of the amber liquid as it made its way down. "Lost", Peter whispered to himself. He never liked using this euphemism, for death was nothing more than loss without the option of being found.