An aged man was the only inhabitant at the vacant bar. As I slid up beside him and ordered a drink, he acknowledged my presence with an absent glance. The stories his steel blue eyes held could challenge a storyteller. As he turned his head and went back to staring at nothing in particular, I caught a glimpse of the hard work etched into the wrinkles he wore around his eyes. Like moths drawn to a lamp post, the cigarette smoke curled around his head. As he took a drag of his dying cigarette he sputtered out a cough and wheezed to no one in particular, "These things will kill me."Slowly he moved his arm, cracking with arthritis, to his cheek, and relaxed his sandpaper skin against it. I noticed his worn out boots caked with mud and dirt, when he slumped off the stool to leave. As he limped to the door I just stared at him depressing every second as this man teetered on like a toddler learning to walk.
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