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There was a comfort in the consistency of Chris’s Friday night after-work routine. The first step he took into his favourite bar, the one with the heavy scent of tobacco in the air, with Jill pouring drinks and Claire nagging in his ear, he felt his problems melt away.
Consistency.
But not tonight. He paused on his second step as the old wooden door to the bar swung shut behind him. Not tonight, because tonight there was a man sitting on his bar stool, nursing his drink like he was ready to cry into it.
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