Empty seats
It should have been a special day for him.
As he entered the pub, the warmth of smiles that he had familiarized himself with would greet him. It was an old pub, too old that he couldn’t even remember when was exactly the first time the place had opened, maybe Roosevelt was still president back then? He’s not sure. It’s not an unusual thing here, pubs were mostly a family business and their children would inherit the business. It was the law here. Like it had been written on the Bible. The cycle would only stop at the time one of them was proven smart enough that he would decide to be an attorney instead — only happened once in a century.
As long as he remembered, the interiors never change. The tables were made of oak and the chairs were made of metal — it was archaic. And he would sit at the same table every night as if it was his throne. The pub has poor lighting — not sure if it was intended. It was almost pitch black that he would step on someone’s Creeper more often than he would’ve wanted to. Under the gloomy light, he tried to limp into the depth of the crowd when out of the blue, a thunderous noise stopped his march.
The tables were made of oak and the chairs were made of metal — it was archaic.
“Congratulations!!”
The shouts alarmed him, an inch close to hitting someone else’s arm. Only until then that he found out that the table was filled by food so plenty that it would be able to feed a family for weeks and flooded by pints of liquors. They were having a huge feast, a feast that even Jesus would’ve been proud of. The air was soon filled with deafening talks and laughter.
He gazes his sights through the rotten oak table. They told him to enjoy the day. It was his treat, he should’ve felt happy about it. He tried, he tried his hardest as it was the last feast of his life. But even with all the effort in the world, the liquors would still feel bitter and the grills would still feel bland. Was it because they had appointed a kid as the bartender? Was it because they put fewer spices than it should’ve been? He tried to put on a smile, but he kept on failing. The best he could manage was to put on lipstick and draw a smile bigger than his mouth. He wonders why. Everyone’s there. Friends, family, everyone that he cares about.
Everyone… except one.
The empty seat stopped him from his gaze as his eyes started to freeze on it. Seconds would soon turn into minutes. No matter how hard he looked into the seat, its firm and tedious silence would always beat him. He couldn’t move his stare away from the seat. It stared back at him, a crooked and stone-cold stare that was as dull as an 80-year old Italian guy. The silence has quickly become deafening. He felt the fierce of cold started to creep in his body and breezes were all over his skin. Soon after, his heart started to pump excruciatingly and he couldn’t hear a word. It felt like the clock has stopped ticking. He jumped from his seat, rushingly grabbing the old coat that was hung near the door, and slammed the crooked door, out into the desolated streets.
He couldn’t move his stare away from the seat. It stared back at him, a crooked and stone-cold stare that was as dull as an 80-year old Italian guy.
In despair, he limped in the middle of a snowy night, underneath the ill-fated street lights. It should be freezing out there, or was it? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. Why would he waltz alone in the middle of a snowy night? He has no answers. He was going to the end of nowhere.
He wasn’t a sturdy guy, well at least, not anymore. Bruises were all over his body, mementos of him fighting the war. One long, persistent, and costly war. He knew that his wounds would catch up with him soon. Yet he wouldn’t ever regret it — that’s what it takes to put a roof under his head. They said roofs would provide him peacefulness. But with every inch of warmth and protection, it has provided him, he’s been feeling more homeless than the beggars across 24th street. It was his house, not his home.
Near the bus stop, something stopped his limping step. His eyes would soon strap on something he has been longing for long. As the wolves would stare ferociously at its prey, his cold and hopeless stare would soon turn to a gleaming stare. And there it went, the eyes that sparked a luminous light and the smile that he grew fond upon. An empty seat that has been vacated for years — something that took him forever to finally steal a glance on.
He stunned in despair. He wasn’t ready, how should he react? As it was aware of his presence, it stepped onto the bus. The sparky eyes then would shine a light to him and it threw a smile at him — precisely how he would’ve liked. A stare that he wouldn’t trade for all the fortunes in the world.
He knew he should’ve stepped onto the bus. He’s dying to see it again. This is the liveliest he has been for years. Yet he still can’t move a muscle, did the cold freeze him? He clenched his hand with a crooked yet strong grip, trying to move any muscle he has left in his body. Soon, the engine started to roar and the tires screeched, as it started drifting away, creating years of distance.
He was powerless. For the very first time in his life, he was in despair. He threw an empty and despondent stare, disappointed and hopeless. As he tried to catch his heavy breath, his mind has already traveled into the gloomy stars.
That stare!
Would it come back to him, or would it be the last time?
Would it not be an empty seat anymore?
