It felt like an age had passed when he entered the bar again. All of it matched the memory perfectly - the dimly lit atmosphere, the stale stench of too-old carpet, the numerous barstools with their cracks and splits and ages of getting crushed into the metal support. Even the bartender looked the same, in how he consistently shaved his beard down to his very jawline and tried in the same tired ways to cover his hairline with a unique tweed hat. And, as he remembered, many patrons asked about that tweed hat to the point that he was forced to remove it for their closer inspection. He often looked slightly offended afterward, and Isaiah would remedy that dismay with a compliment paid and no requirement to see the goods up close. Sometimes it helped, sometimes it didn't.

When Isaiah entered the bar, he realized that only a week had passed. Nothing changed. His schedule remained undisrupted. The bartender already had his drink ready. He was on time. The ice hadn't started to melt.

So he claimed his seat, stared into the shot of tequila that looked back at him in silver clarity, and followed the rind of the lime with his finger. Worried it a little.

It was easy to forget when drunk. He planned it this way, with the shot of tequila as the start, for its intensity would shock away all the festering thoughts he might've collected throughout the day. But, in that instance, he thought he might want that bitter sharpness. He knew that tomorrow marked the day for his departure, and to numb himself now meant that he would face its exacerbating ritual in all its cruelty the next morning - potentially with a hangover.

So he waited.

Vesale
hope this works for a start! if you need things added or changed, lmk!