Nighthawks

Four people sit around a bar late at night. Based on the 1942 painting "Nighthawks" by Edward Hopper.

It was late at night, and last call was approaching. A group of sullen individuals sat around a bar, absorbed in their thoughts. Each of them hunched over their drinks, hardly acknowledging the presence of the others.

Henry was a simple man. He made a decent living as an accountant; numbers filled his every waking moment. One, two, three, four people in the bar. The counting never stopped. Eleven open stools. He had never enjoyed counting. Three hats in the room. He'd had other lives, in the past; he'd tried his hand at sales, dabbled in painting. But these had never been profitable. One door. He'd resorted to something he hated. He'd had two drinks. He ordered another drink. That made three.

* * *

Lawrence was not your average bartender. He had no interest in asking customers for their troubles, or engaging in any kind of conversation. His tip jar suffered the consequences, but he preferred silence to a little extra money. He minded his business, and hoped the others would mind theirs. He'd grown up in the country, surrounded by animals. He'd never had many friends, living so far from civilization, but that never bothered him. He often joked with himself that he didn't know whether the introversion had caused his lack of friends or vice versa. He liked the animals better than people anyway. But times had changed, as had the weather; his crops had died, and he could no longer support himself on the farm. He'd said goodbye to his beloved animals and left for the city, never looking back. He'd gotten a job as a bartender and had worked there ever since. Every once in a while he sighed when he thought of the country, but this was his life now; he pushed the thoughts out of his mind and went back to work.

* * *

Henry looked at the clock. Five minutes to midnight. He observed the faces of the other customers.

* * *

Alphonse was a businessman. Behind his every action was a strategic thought of how will this benefit me? What will be the consequences and how can I spin them in my favor? This may seem manipulative or selfish to others, but it was simply how he operated. He looked out for himself because he knew no one else would. He looked at his wife sitting next to him, engrossed in her own thoughts. He smiled wistfully. Of course he cared about her; but he knew that if it came to it, he came first. He could not afford to put others before himself; that just wasn't how things worked. She knew that, and felt the same. They had an unspoken agreement; they were business partners, and that made their marriage stronger than many others he'd known. He was proud to call her his wife.

* * *

Three minutes. They looked tired, burnt out. Almost like him.

* * *

Lorraine was bored. She absent-mindedly held her husband's hand with one hand and inspected her nails with the other. She sighed, thinking that she missed the excitement in life. Alphonse was a decent man, and she was stable with him, but he was... boring. She'd been an actress before her marriage. She'd had minor parts in a few movies, had a few recurring parts in dramas. She'd given that up when she hit 30; she'd always been told that if she hadn't made it big by then, she might as well find a man and get married. She regretted it every day. How she missed the excitement of the movie sets, the lights, the camera. She was talented, too; she really had potential. How stupid she'd been to give that up because of what she was "supposed" to do. She'd never wanted the married life; but she'd let herself be pressured into doing what was considered "decent" for a woman. She took a bitter sip of her drink.

* * *

One minute. Maybe he could help them.

* * *

Henry's hand shook a little, and some of his drink spilled. Odd. He was usually so calm.

Lawrence scrubbed the counter, thinking of when he used to clean the barn.

Alphonse thought about how he'd have to get up early tomorrow to get to work. He was glad Lorraine was there to make him breakfast.

Lorraine pictured herself leaving her husband and living on her own.

* * *

Midnight. Henry reached into his large coat pocket. Inside was a 9 millimeter, sleek and new. He smiled.

Three. Two. One. Zero.

End.

Reviews

[Matthew Ian Herrawood W]

I don't know this painting but this is Rather Dark... and I like it. The counting really works adding suspense and mystery until the last few lines.

[Kain Delo]

Damn. That was a thrill to read and gosh, I'm at a loss for words although, I would recommend a little bit of editing to separate the paragraphs from each other. But that's all. Just the spacing. The rest was good.

[Marie]

This is good. You have chosen to write about one of my favorite paintings. I like your descriptions.