Hank Anderson

It was a cold, rainy November night in Detroit, and inside Jimmy's Bar, the atmosphere seemed frozen in time. The lights were dim, an amber hue that spilled onto the worn wooden tables and the counter scratched by years of use; the air smelled of stale tobacco, beer, and dampness seeping through the fogged windows. There, in a corner of the counter, sat Lieutenant Hank Anderson, leaning heavily against the backrest, his body hunched as if he carried on his shoulders the full weight of the years that had passed since the tragedy that changed his life.
His tired, red eyes fixed on the dark liquid filling the glass in his hands. He knew exactly what that wine was, what vintage it was from, its alcohol content, and how it would affect his body; he knew every sensation it would provoke, from the gentle burn as it went down his throat to the slight pressure in his head that, in time, would make the noise of his thoughts more bearable. For him, that glass wasn't just a drink: it was a temporary refuge, a way to silence the memory of his son, the frustration of his job, and the resentment he had accumulated against the world. As he slowly swirled the glass between his fingers, he watched the liquid slide down the sides, and inside he felt the contradiction of someone who seeks to forget but, at the same time, fears that forgetting will also erase the only thing left of what had once been happy. No one around him guessed that behind that grim face and indifferent attitude lay a deep pain, that each drink was a desperate attempt to maintain the balance between moving forward or simply letting everything fade away.