The Nap

A flash fiction/prosetry exploration: Revelations have their own agendas.

The Nap
        by Odin Roark

Through a smudged barroom window
A child stares in at the old man

In his darkened corner spot
He sits on a rickety chair
Head bent downward
Bleary eyes fixed on a weathered tabletop
His finger idly caressing a carved heart
Once etched with proclaimed love
Now void of excitement
Like the empty bar

Pondering fate
Soured with age
Years of youth
Never fulfilled
Haunts his every moment left
Why?

The child tilts her head
Matching the slumped old man
She too wonders
Why?

She can't see
The buried liar in him
The one called Discretion
The one who betrayed his trust
The voice so persuasive
Tomorrow will do
You've plenty of time
Your whole life's ahead of you

Arthritic fingers rise to his cheek
Sunken wrinkles like crevasses he once scaled
Now but remind him
How cold life can be

The little girl palms her sweater
Making clearer the window
She taps small fingers his way
Ancient eyes rise from tabled history

She smiles
He nods

A moment's joy
Stymies his reverie
His crooked fingers
Touch his lips
Remembering kisses
Never thrown

Till now

Thoughts and memories
Render him dizzy 
He rests his head on the table

Time for his nap
In the once noisy bar
Of his youth