Arden / Bar-Biker

Arden worked behind the long, polished mahogany bar. He had been bartending there for four years. Long enough to memorize most of the regulars' drinks, moods, and stories. Arden prided himself on remembering details others missed: the way someone gripped their glass when they were nervous, or how their eyes searched the mirror behind the bar for something or someone they couldn't quite name. In a place that revolved around forgetfulness, Arden remembered.

His hands moved like instinct, pouring deep red wine, topping off a vodka soda, measuring tequila shots with mathematical ease. Conversations came and went, the background din of heartache and hope disguised in slurred syllables. Arden rarely attached meaning to the customers' confessions anymore. Not because he didn't care, but because most of them vanished after a few visits, disappearing into the shadows of their lives, never to return.

Except for one.

They had first come in on a rainy Tuesday, three months ago, unremarkable except for the absence of color in the evening crowd. The bar had been slow, filled with damp coats and murmurs. Arden remembered the door opening, letting in a gust of wind and the faint scent of petrichor, and then this person stepped inside.

They had approached the bar slowly, eyes scanning the room like someone walking through a library instead of a bar. When they finally reached Arden, they didn't ask for a beer or a cocktail. They asked for a bottle of water.

Just water? Arden had asked himself, blinking.

He gave them a bottle of spring water, not tap, though he wasn't sure why, and watched as they walked to the same seat they would claim every day thereafter: a small, square table near the back, half-hidden in the shadow of an old jukebox that hadn't worked in years. They'd unscrew the cap, take a sip, and sit in silence, slowly nursing the drink like it was a fine wine.

At first, Arden didn't think much of it. People came in for strange reasons. Maybe they were waiting for someone, or perhaps they didn't drink. But they came back the next day. And the next. And the next after that.

Always the same time, sometime between 5:45 and 6:00 p.m., and always the same ritual. A polite nod to Arden, a bottle of water, and then retreating to their corner. Sometimes they'd stay for half an hour. Sometimes for two. But always quiet. Always calm. Always alone.

Arden shouldn't have cared. But he found himself doing so. He found himself watching them out of the corner of his eye each night, trying to figure them out like a riddle. Were they grieving? Escaping? Waiting for someone who never showed? There was something almost sacred about the way they drank the water, measured, deliberate, as if savoring a memory only they could taste.

The other patrons rarely noticed them, and the ones who did sometimes scoffed. "Weird," Arden overheard one guy whisper to his date. "Who the hell comes to a bar for free water?"

But Arden didn't think it was weird. Not anymore.

Something was soothing about the routine. On nights when the crowd got rowdy or a fight broke out near the pool table, he'd glance back at the corner and see them there, unmoved, unbothered, serene like a still point in a churning world. It grounded him, more than he cared to admit.

One Thursday evening, the bar was hushed. The rain had returned, pattering on the windows like fingers tapping a lullaby. Arden cleaned the counter for the fifth time, polishing a set of tumblers that no one would probably use. He checked the clock. 5:59 p.m.

Right on cue, the door creaked open.

They stepped inside, raincoat dripping. He slid the water bottle across the counter without a word. They sat down, unscrewed the cap as always, and took a sip. Then another. Silence stretched between them like a bridge made of glass.

Finally, Arden leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "I hope you don't mind me asking… but I've seen you here every day. You never drink, never talk to anyone. What's up with you and water?"