No One Knows My Name

Swisher sweets and whiskey breath
from an old man sitting alone at a table-for-two
find unwelcomed discomfort in my nostrils.
I sit on a nicotine-brown chair
that was once a glossy white,
with a flattened pillow tied to its splintering legs,
acting as a make-shift cushion,
until I'm forced to sit on my hands to rid my ass
from the aching of resting on it all day at the office.
We see each other every weekday during Happy Hour,
greeting one another with a slight nod and a rising of our drinks,
ackowledging that
yes,
we are alive.

The Leroy Miller Band jumps right into
"Damn Right I've Got the Blues"
while I order another scotch with a side of unsalted cashews,
that are always slightly stale,
which I've grown accustomed to over the years.
Scents of lilac and pomegranate
from my waitress, Tiffany,
gives a nice interruption from
the old man's smoke that the air filters above
can't seem to eliminate.
I wonder if her husband satisfies her;
the diamond on her finger tells me "no."

Seven o'clock hits and my Happy Hours are over for the day.
Out of habit,
I call my wife and tell her I'll be home soon,
with a half-hearted "I love you,"
that she rebounds right back into my frail ear.
I let out a short sob,
covering it up as quick as I can with my Gucci blazer's sleeve,
only to see the old man look up at me,
giving another nod and a quick "cheers."