These rare instances, he said. Moments in time we’ll never get back. Think you got something, and then the door is shut. Any chance there was is now gone. It’s a brief opportunity, he lit a cigarette. And for what? To see beyond? The gathering of information? Seeking out love? Ask yourself.  Do these things matter?

Hey chief. Ready for another? the bartender asked. He nodded yes. Downed what was left in his glass, a short scotch. A snifter was placed before him.

And I don’t say these things lightly, he whispered. There’s always a reason. We’re forever looking at the broader scope, crushed out his Marlboro.  We take what is there, and we narrow it down. And what is there? A gift? Punishment for sins we committed long ago? Greetings from God? We wait for his word. Whether we believe or not, we’re always wanting a sign that everything will be alright. Sun in the sky. Birds chirping.  A white Christmas.  We want to be told it’s all OK, the bartender looked down the bar at him. Sitting there. Talking to himself. Vanna turned another letter. The puzzle was solved.