The months and days have begun to look a lot like each other. He couldn't tell Wednesday from Sunday. The only reason he knew without a doubt that this was Saturday, were his boys. They sit over beer and junk food, talking about the lives before the lives they lived. None more satisfied than the other. Each middle aged-man waiting to tell a hilarious story that was not hilarious at all about the lives they had chosen before finding the bottom of the bottle on Saturday nights. These were his boys.
He had another battle before him and it came in a brown bottle but a brown bottle he wasn't eager to empty. Do not drink with alcohol, it read. The sudden vibration of his phone distracting him from studying his own reflection in the bathroom mirror jolted him. He glanced at the screen and sighed feeling all of his years. He could not take his daughter’s call. She will hear the slurring of his words accompanied by highlife music and bellies of laughter. She will then tell him the same thing she told him last Saturday over the sound of his boys half drunk and half empty. “You should find other friends Dad”, she’d say. Like before, he found his eyes again and stared harder. Maybe she was right he thought, as he stroked what seemed to be the first peppering of white-grey hair.
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