Seeing the bottom of the bar through his glass, the man looked up at the barkeep.
"You've had enough, old man."
"I'll tell you when I've had enough."
"How long do you plan on doing this?" Asked the bartender.
"Until these scars heal, young man."
"Scars don't heal. That's why they're called scars."
Frustrated, the old man cast his gaze back through his glass to the bottom where he could see the bar.
"What do you know of the world? Of scars?"
"I've seen enough of the world. From the likes of you and your kind."
"My kind?" Asked the old man.
"Drinking to remember. Drinking to forget. It hardly matters. You're all the same."
"You're killing my buzz, kid."
"Scars don't heal. You drink to give reason. Hoping the booze gives answer to old wounds. A million stories I've put up with here at this bar serving husks of men."
"Invariably, it's a woman. A woman that scars."
"You've shown your age, kid. Women don't wound. Their words do."
"I don't see a difference between the two," answered the bartender.
"Then you need to drink more than I," retorted the old man.