Bernie Monologue

Bernie was an old man now and he knew it was beginning to show. Despite it being something that he had always promised himself he would never reach, he’d secretly known that ageing was inevitable and was therefore not a question of whether it would happen, but when it would happen. These were the thoughts passing nonchalantly through his head as he chose an unoccupied table and sat down, looking around the bar as he did so. What if his wife was still here, things would be so much more pleasurable and lively. She was the one in the relationship that provided the energy; with her gone he felt as if he was just an empty battery with nothing left to give. A well-spoken young man, no older than 20 asking what he would like to drink, disturbed his reminiscing. This very simple question caused him to
The day he heard the news about the fatal incident he vowed to visit the place that she sent the postcard from. To see where she spent her final days. As he was contemplating all of this, he placed the glass back, the contents of which had seemingly evaporated. The liquid having tumbled down his throat as an avalanche moves down the side of a mountain as fast as he could gulp. He dried his wrinkled palms on his trousers and with his right hand he dove into his rear right-hand pocket from which he withdrew the treasured postcard that he had sheltered and kept for all these years, never once letting it leave his sight for a single second.

So many years had elapsed since he had received the postcard, that it had been understandably worn and was creased in various places as well as beginning to show symptoms of crazing. He read it over once more, despite having memorised the three sentences ages ago. Bernie then stood up, slapped a 10-dollar bill on the table and made his way to the exit of the air-conditioned utopia that was the