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Three Shots Of Perspective

I hear the unusually silent ambulance as it pulls up to the pub parking lot. The lights are off, and the thrill of the vehicle’s rush is absent. The men inside take deep breaths and head inside to get some drinks.

They walk in slowly and sit across from me, asking for the hard stuff — three shots each. Their eyes well up as they stare at their reflections from behind the counter. I say nothing, but I feel their heartache.

Once they scarf down that first shot, they wipe away their tears and use me as a confidant, even though I don’t know their names from a hole in the wall. Regardless, they tell me that they did all they could to save the man, but they still feel guilty.

After the second glass, they pull out photographs of their girlfriends from their wallets, trying to remember how good they have it and how healthy they are.

They shake my hand after their third shot and tell me that I’m a good listener. I humbly thank them before tipping my cap, stepping out, and telling them to “be safe out there.”

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