“Ever been to war, son?”
“War? Yes. War? No.”
The reply confused the octogenarian, for he was increasingly prone to moments of confusion as of late. The man down the bar was prim.
“Holy hell, don’t be so perplexing. There is no purpose for such an answer.”
“I feel vague today, Doctor.”
Confusion, again. “I can see you clear enough.”
“Oh je- mentally, not physically. Doctor, a thin fog clouds my thoughts. They sift through, fragmented and confusing.”
The octogenarian downed the rest of his bourbon. “You ain’t the only one, bucko. Confused, that is.”
The bartender, who had been carefully cleaning a glass, walked up to the octogenarian. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”
The octogenarian looked around the bar, confused. “I’m one of only two customers - and you’re kicking me out?”
“You’ve worn out your welcome.”
The octogenarian got off his stool, his weight making the floorboards creak, his confusion at a peak.
“I don’t understand.”
The bartender just looked at him. “Nobody does.”
The octogenarian walked to the door, took a final look back and exited the bar. The light outside was dazzling, a vicious contrast to the dark inside. Blinded, the octogenarian staggered into the street and was sent four feet into the air by the Buick that hit him in his left hip. He landed on the tarmacadam after two seconds of suspension. Blood spread quickly from all facial orifices.
Now he was thoroughly confused.

THE END

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...