Slumped on a green stool at the end of a bar, he looked as if life had wrung every last ounce of living out of him. There was nothing left, nothing that didn’t come out of the glass of whiskey and ice he cradled between his hands.
He was wrinkled, dirty and sullen. His hands and clothes were filthy and stained.
I told the bartender to give him another. He drank it down, and stood unsteadily to leave.
As he passed, I heard his slurred mumble, “the answers you’re looking for are in forgiveness—not in theirs—but in yours."