Break From Reality. Daily.
This story is by James Hardesty and was part of our 2022 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. Derek knelt before his daughter, Mia. After hearing his trembling words, the five-year-old had tears on her round, pink cheeks. They were tears of sudden loss and heartbreak, falling onto her…
“Is it okay to ask how you got those burns?” he asks as he places a pint in front of me. Hot dogs come to boil in a battered stock pot behind the bar, permeating the stale air with the odor of cooked meat.
He seems interested, but I know the type. If I told him the story, he’d go on about that one friend in middle school who was burned in an accident. The question always ends up being a vehicle for their stories, and that’s fine.
He means well. Bartenders always do. They are better than shrinks; once they realize I’m not in the talking mood, they back off. There’s a kindness in being left alone.
He looks like he wants to press the issue. It must be the start of his shift; not one noticeable beer stain and his hair is combed just so. This is likely his first conversation of the day. He stirs the pot. I wonder when it was last cleaned.
“It’s fine, man,” I start. “It happened in Iraq.”
