A bartender gets an interesting customer. Original fiction by Lisa DeBenedictis.

The rain fell, pooling and hissing as it reached the gutters. I wiped at the foggy window with my rag, then continued with the stools.

A man walked in with an accelerated pace, wiping beads of water from his balding head with the back of his hand. He took off his overcoat; he wore a steel blue sweater over a white collared shirt and charcoal pants. His shoes were black and looked expensive. His sweater had a grease stain that very clearly resembled the Italian peninsula; a ragged little boot.

“Here for lunch?” I asked, walking back behind the counter to pour him a glass of water.

He hovered over the bar, but remained standing. “Yes.”

I tried my best to smile encouragingly. “I’ll bring over some menus.”

“I’ll have a Ketel One and cranberry. And the Waldorf salad.”

“Sure.”

He glanced around, and then took a seat.

I poured his drink in silence, plucked a lime from the container, and placed it in front of him.

He picked it up with both hands and took a long sip. “Did you read in the papers about that man in Roxbury? The one that tried to set himself on fire in his own apartment?”

“I did.”

“Yup. Set fire to the whole freakin’ building.”

“Yeah. That was a really sad story.”

“They say he was clinically depressed.”

“Makes a lot of sense.”

“You must know what people are saying, then.”

“Nope. What are they saying?”

“They’re saying: ‘Why couldn’t he just slit his wrists?’ ”

I paused from answering a text and looked up. He leaned forward, gripping the counter with his left hand. The drink remained in his right. He continued to stare at me with wide blue eyes.

“Well,” I said, “maybe it was more of a cry for help.”

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