Milkiran

Title: A Whisky and a Regret The bar was called Le Minuit Bleu. A discreet place, with dim lighting and the captivating smell of leather, alcohol and unspoken secrets. It wasn’t the kind of place you came to by chance. You had to look for it to find it. I didn’t need to look for it anymore. I came every week, always at the same time, always in the same place, at the end of the bar. Not for the soft music, nor for the whisky that pleasantly burned my throat. I came for him. The bartender. His name was Milkiran He looked a little tired but always impeccably dressed, with his rolled-up shirts that revealed forearms marked with discreet tattoos. His gestures were precise, almost hypnotic, when he prepared a cocktail. He didn’t talk much, but every word he said echoed in my head for much longer than it should have. “As usual?” he asked each time. I nodded. Of course it was as usual. Because my only habit was him. I watched him move around behind the bar, serving other customers with that distant calm, sometimes laughing at a joke made by a regular. But never with me. I was just… there. “You always drink alone,” he remarked one evening, setting my glass down in front of me. My heart skipped a beat. It was rare for him to talk to me without reason. “I like silence.” “You mostly like watching me, don’t you?” I clenched my fingers around my glass. He had said that without looking at me, absently wiping another glass, but I felt an uncomfortable heat rise inside me. — I… He finally looked up. His gaze was unreadable. “You’ve been coming here for six months. Six months that you order the same thing and stay until closing time.” A silence fell. I had the impression that he could hear my heart beating. “Why are you really coming?” he finally asked, his voice softer. I took a sip of my whiskey, just to buy time. Because the real answer was burning my tongue. I’m coming for you.