Pharmacy

The winter hit hard after a couple of years living down under. I put on my coat and left the apartment. The freezing cold air hit my face. The streets were empty, quiet, covered in thick snow, and lit by the soft yellow glow of the street lamps.

I walked toward a small building on the corner of the street. Through the foggy, large windows, you could see people sitting at tables. This place used to be a pharmacy, but someone had turned it into a bar. Hipster, but actually a very cool spot.

I stepped inside. The place was hot and noisy. I walked to the bar, sat down, and hung my coat underneath it. The bartender, who was also the owner, looked at me and nodded. It wasn’t my first time here. Lately, I’d been coming quite a lot. I liked it because this guy just didn’t give a damn. It wasn’t very Canadian of him, and that’s exactly why I liked him.

People would come in and stand, waiting to order a drink, while he casually talked to someone, ignoring them. Eventually, he’d serve them, but sometimes people just left. He didn’t seem to care.

He brought me a glass of whisky and a milk stout. We exchanged a few words, but it was busy, so he left me to my thoughts. I took out my notebook, jotted down these few lines, and sank into my melancholy.

Toronto, 2017