At the Bar with Jimmy

Jimmy sat three stools down, turning an untouched glass between his palms as if the answer might be written along its rim. The bar was nearly empty, except for a woman feeding quarters into the jukebox and a man asleep beneath the blue light of the television.

“You ever notice,” Jimmy said, “how people tell the truth when they think nobody important is listening?”

I told him that depended on what he considered important.

He smiled without looking up. Jimmy had a way of making every sentence sound borrowed from a conversation he had already finished somewhere else. He wore the same brown jacket each Friday and always ordered a drink he never seemed to drink.

That night he told me about a woman he had loved, a train he had missed, and a letter that had followed him through three apartments unopened. I could not tell which parts were confession and which were performance. Maybe neither could he.

When the bartender announced last call, Jimmy left the glass full and placed a folded envelope beneath it.

“Some stories,” he said, “only become true after you finally let somebody read them.”

Then he walked out before I could ask whether the letter was meant for me.