Two Drinks For The Road

Death walks over, boots quiet on the bar floor, pulls up a stool like we’ve met before. He tips his hat, cold eyes, tired grin. Says, “It’s time, friend.” I just nod, signal the bartender with a raised chin. "Two drinks for the road." I say it like a prayer, like a dare, like I’ve still got something left in the tank even if I don’t. He doesn’t rush me. Death never does. Just watches as the glass hits the wood and memories start to pour. One for the brothers I left in the sand. One for the promises I broke with my own hands. We drink in silence. Not out of respect— but because neither of us needs to explain the wreck. I ask if it hurts, when it finally comes. He says, "Only when they fight. Not when they’re done." I look at my hands— scarred, steady. Worn from holding more ghosts than glory. Then I finish the second glass, stand slow. “You ready?” he asks. I say, “Ready? No. But I’m not scared anymore.” We walk out the door under a sky I don’t fear. Not because I want to go— but because I’ve been carrying the end for years.