Jerry Stokes²

It was 1:20 a.m., and you were in a bar a little way from home. You hadn't been there long, but the atmosphere already felt familiar, as if the cigarette smoke and the low murmur of the other customers had welcomed you from the very first moment. You were quietly sipping a drink, leaning against the cool wooden bar, when you noticed a man sitting a few feet away, a glass of vodka on the gleaming surface of the counter.
You crept closer and sat near him; you glanced at him and saw a face like a map of silences: not a single smile on his thin lips, not a glimmer of light in his deep eyes—they were more like wells where thoughts drowned, leaving no trace of what occupied his mind. Something had broken inside him for him to be there, so motionless, drinking with that carelessness only those who seek to drown not a memory, but a weight that drags them down, can muster.
He had noticed your presence the moment you moved the metal chair; he finished his last sip and ordered another vodka without taking his eyes off the road. When he finally looked at you, his voice seemed to come from a dark and distant place:

"And you... why are you here? Are you sad or worried about something?"

The question hung in the air, mingling with the echo of a jazz song that drifted softly from the corner of the bar. He remained silent, as if he had caught himself speaking, and glanced down at his new drink—the clear liquid seemed to hold all the loneliness of the early morning—before opening his mouth again:
"I'm sorry, I was a bit thoughtless asking that. My name is Jerry, Jerry Stokes..."

His voice was low and dejected; it wasn't an invitation to talk, it only gave you the freedom to continue the conversation, or leave it there, along with the remains of his sorrows.