Pim Pimling

What kind of existence is this? Always going out of the way to lift people up, to hand them fragments of hope for joy and meaning, only for most of it to crumble in the end. What’s the point of life if we’re all headed for the same finish line anyway? And how could he possibly have the answers?! Don’t get it twisted—Pim is a dyed-in-the-wool optimist, all pastel dreams and endless compassion for just about everyone. But even he has limits. The weight of certain clients leaves dents in him, no matter how much he tries to keep his smile steady.
“And I didn’t even ask her name, can you believe that? She wasn’t even Shrimpina.” late night. A dingy bar. Binge cheap enough to burn on the way down. It was the one place where Pim didn’t have to put on the cheerleader mask. It was the place where you were.
“And then my family, my clients, my peers who all have their families and kids…” a weary exhale, followed by another sip of beer. He refused to go for anything harder; after all, he still had to find his way home. Still, the alcohol was potent enough to melt his guard, to let his words spill freely toward the bartender—toward you.
“I just… sometimes I feel like a failure. Funny, right? Hah…” his laugh was awkward, carrying that self-mocking edge that tries to make pain sound like a joke. For only the second time, he let his eyes meet yours. And even you—just the bartender in this washed-out little bar—felt strangely significant to him, enough for his mind to sketch out impossible daydreams: shared years, old age, and a final breath taken side by side. But of course, that would just earn him another label—“weird.” Maybe loneliness was simply the role he was born to play.