Fool for one more love Cian Doyle Fool For one more l o v e Cian Doyle Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Fool for one more love Fool for one more love Cian Doyle Cian Doyle An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Fool for one more love T he bar smells like stale beer and desperation. I’ve been here too many nights to count, nurs- ing the same glass of whatever’s cheapest on tap, watching the same faces come and go. Nothing changes. Not in this goddamn town, anyway. But to- night? Tonight feels different. Maybe it’s because I’m wearing this stupid shirt I found at the back of the closet. It’s a little tight around the middle, showing off more of my gut than I care to admit, but it’s clean. And I haven’t worn it in years. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the bar and try to smile. I don’t know why, I’ve never been a guy who smiled much but I force it anyway. The smile doesn’t reach my eyes. That’s okay, though. People don’t notice that kind of thing. At least, they don’t if you can fake it well enough. Cian Doyle I take another swig of beer. I’ve got a mission to- night. One that I’ve given up on a thousand times before, but here I am again, trying to convince my- self that maybe, just maybe, tonight will be different. I’m not sure if I’m convincing anyone else, but hell, that’s half the battle, right? Pretending you’ve still got something left when everything’s already been used up. I think about that for a moment how everything’s been used up and almost laugh. I’m not a man to ask for much. I don’t want love. I don’t need it. What I need is something simpler: a distraction. Just a few minutes to forget that I’m old- er than I care to admit and that most days I feel like I’m fighting against the clock to make something of myself that’s worth remembering. I glance around the room. Same faces, different nights. Some of them look just as lost as me. Oth- ers are pretending harder, playing their own game of charades. There’s a woman sitting at the end of the bar. She’s drinking whiskey, staring into her glass like it’s the only thing in the world that makes sense. I notice her for two reasons: One, she’s alone. And two, she’s not talking to anyone. The ones who are talking, they’re the easy ones to spot. They’re the ones who think they’ve got it all figured out, but you can see it Fool for one more love in their eyes. The desperation. The need to be seen, to be noticed, to be wanted But the woman? She doesn’t give a damn. And that’s what pulls me in. I down the rest of my beer in one go. It burns a little, like it always does. It’s a good kind of burn. It’s the kind that lets you know you’re still alive, even if only barely. I get up and walk over to her, my boots scraping against the floor in that way that makes me sound like a man with a purpose. Or at least a man who thinks he does. “Mind if I sit?” I ask, but it’s not really a question. I’m already sitting. Doesn’t matter what she says. She glances up at me. She’s got these sharp eyes, like she can see through every dumb thing I’m about to say, like she’s seen it all before. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even acknowledge the attempt. She just tilts her head, the way you do when you’re trying to figure someone out. I shift in my seat, uncomfortably aware of my age and the fact that I’ve probably already lost whatever game I’m playing. But I keep going. I always keep go- ing. “You come here often?” Yeah, I know it’s a cliché, but hell, what else am I gonna say? Cian Doyle She takes another sip of her whiskey, never break- ing eye contact. “Not really,” she says. “I just needed a drink.” Well, there it is. Straight to the point. She’s not here for small talk, not here for my tired pickup lines. She’s just here to get drunk, just like the rest of us. It’s funny, isn’t it? How we all think we’re so different, but at the end of the night, we’re all just trying to escape something. I try to smile again. This time, it’s a little more gen- uine. A little less forced. “I get that,” I say. “Some- times a drink’s the only thing that’ll make the world seem like it’s worth living in for a couple hours.” She looks at me like I’m an idiot, and I almost want to apologize, but then I realize something: she doesn’t care. She’s not looking for me to make her feel better. Hell, she’s probably not looking for anything at all. I lean in a little, the way you do when you’re trying to make the conversation feel real, even though you both know it’s not. “So, what’s the deal? Bad day? Bad week?” She shrugs, like she doesn’t even know. “Maybe,” she says. “Maybe it’s just life.” Fool for one more love I laugh. It’s bitter, but there’s no way around it. “Yeah, life has a way of kicking us in the teeth, doesn’t it?” She nods slowly, almost as if she’s agreeing with some unspoken truth. The silence hangs there, thick between us. It’s a si- lence that says a lot without saying anything at all. I wonder if she’s as bored as I am. If she’s just filling the void the same way I am: pretending to care, pretend- ing to connect, pretending to be something we’re not. It’s all just a game, and I’m not sure I’m winning. Hell, I’m not even sure I know the rules anymore. “Why don’t you tell me something,” I say, trying to break the quiet, “what’s the one thing you’re really good at?” She looks at me for a long time, her eyes narrow- ing. Maybe she’s trying to decide if I’m worth the ef- fort. Maybe she’s just trying to figure out if I’m lying. Finally, she answers, her voice low, like it’s a secret. “I’m really good at being alone.” I almost laugh, but I don’t. I just nod. It’s the kind of answer that’s been sitting in the back of her mind Cian Doyle for years, waiting for someone to ask. It’s the kind of answer that stings because it’s true. “Well,” I say, standing up and tossing a few bills on the bar. “I’m really good at being just the right amount of pathetic.” She watches me walk away, and I don’t look back. There’s no point. We both know how this ends. I step out into the cold night air, the buzz of the bar still clinging to me, and I can’t help but laugh. It’s not a happy laugh. It’s the kind of laugh you make when you realize you’re still the same guy you’ve always been—old, tired, and a little bit broken. But still, you try. You keep going. Because what else is there to do? Another night. Another failure. Same as the last one. Same as the next. * * * * * The bar smells like defeat. It’s not a regular bar smell... no, it’s more like the kind of place where dreams come to die, one drink at a time. You know, the kind of place where the air’s thick with stale ciga- rettes and whiskey-soaked memories that no one can quite remember but everyone still carries around. My seat is the same one I always take, just far enough Fool for one more love from the stage to avoid the drunk guys trying to sing their broken hearts out, but close enough to the door so I can make a quick exit if I need to. Not that I ever do, but a man’s got to have a plan, right? I’m nursing a beer, pushing it around in circles, watching the bubbles rise. You can’t get a good buzz off of this stuff. It’s the kind of beer you drink when you want to forget, but not really. You drink it when you’ve already given up on the idea of getting drunk, but you’re too stubborn to leave, too stupid to admit that the night’s already over before it started. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. An hour, maybe two. Doesn’t matter. Time has a way of los- ing its meaning when you’re on the wrong side of 40, trying to convince yourself that maybe tonight will be different, even though you’ve said that a thousand times and failed just as many. Then I see her. She’s sitting at the far end of the bar, her back to the wall like she’s trying to keep the whole world from closing in on her. She’s got a whiskey in front of her, one of those fancy drinks that comes in a short glass with a square of ice that looks like it costs more than my entire life’s worth of mistakes. She’s not looking at Cian Doyle anyone, just staring into her drink like she’s thinking about something far away. And I get it. Hell, I really get it. That’s exactly what I’m doing right now. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, then push my beer aside, like maybe if I act like I’ve got some kind of purpose, something’s going to change. I stand up, my knees cracking like they’re making their own statement about how bad this night is al- ready. And I walk over to her. Smooth, right? Not even close. I’m like a guy who used to think he was cool in high school but is now just desperately pre- tending he’s got anything left to give. But still, I walk over. I slide onto the stool next to her like I’ve done this a hundred times before. Hell, I probably have. “Mind if I join you?” I ask, but it’s not really a ques- tion. I’m already sitting, the words just trailing be- hind my actions. She looks up at me, but not really. It’s the kind of glance that says, “Yeah, I see you, but I’m not im- pressed.” Her eyes are sharp, almost too sharp, like she’s already figured me out in the three seconds I’ve been standing there. Fool for one more love “Sure,” she says, her voice flat like she’s been asked that question a thousand times before. I should say something smart, something witty, something that makes her think, Wow, this guy’s dif- ferent. But I can’t do that. Instead, I lean in, maybe a little too much, like I’m about to tell her something important, and ask, “So, what brings you to a dive bar on a Tuesday?” She snorts, like she’s heard this line a thousand times, and I feel the weight of my stupidity settle on my chest. “Just needed to get away from my life for a bit,” she says, still not looking at me, just staring at her whiskey like it’s going to fix all her problems. I nod, pretending I understand. I don’t. But that’s what people do when they don’t have anything better to offer. They nod. They smile. They lie. It’s all part of the act. “I get it,” I say, my voice a little too loud, like I’m al- ready a few beers in, even though I’ve barely touched mine. “Life’s a real pain in the ass, huh?” She looks at me, the blankness in her eyes cutting through me like a knife. It’s not what I want. It’s not even close. But it’s all I’ve got. “Sure, it’s a pain, but that doesn’t make it any less real.” Cian Doyle Real. The word sits between us, thick like smoke. It’s one of those words that sounds heavy, but means nothing. It’s the kind of word people use when they want to sound deep, like they’re getting the other per- son. “Yeah, I’ve been there,” I say, leaning in like I’m about to say something profound. “I’ve been through the wringer, you know? You ever hear the joke about the guy who used to be a real catch?” She doesn’t laugh. Instead, she looks at me, her eyes narrowing like she’s trying to decide if I’m worth her time. I wish I could say I didn’t care, but I do. I always do. “Used to be?” she says, raising an eyebrow. “What happened?” I pause. She’s already losing interest, and I’m too damn proud to let it show. But she’s got me in a cor- ner, and she knows it. I scramble for something to hold onto. “I mean, I still am,” I say, quickly recov- ering. “In my own way. Just... a little older, a little rougher around the edges.” She smirks, but it’s not the kind of smirk I’m look- ing for. It’s the kind that says, I’ve heard this one be- fore, and I’m not impressed. Fool for one more love I clear my throat and try to steer the conversation into safer waters. “I got jokes,” I say, cracking my knuckles like I’m about to deliver some world-class comedy. “Wanna hear one?” She leans back in her chair, her arms crossing over her chest, eyes still locked on me. “Sure. Hit me with your best shot.” It’s a terrible idea. I know it’s a terrible idea. But the worst part is I can’t stop myself. So I tell her one of those stupid, crude jokes that I used to think were funny. It’s the kind of joke that’s meant to shock, meant to get a laugh, but it’s flat. It dies the second it leaves my lips. She doesn’t laugh. Not even a little. Instead, she stares at me like I’m the punchline, and then, without hesitation, she says, “That was awful.” And, just like that, the mask slips. The world around me sharpens into focus, and I realize something: I’m not fooling anyone. I force a laugh, but it’s hollow, like the sound of a bad idea bouncing off the walls. I try to play it off, acting like I’m cool with it, but inside, I’m sinking. Cian Doyle “You’re right,” I say, trying to salvage it. “I’m terri- ble at this. But hey, I’m still here, right?” She looks at me for a long time. It feels like she’s seeing through all my bullshit, all the lies I tell myself to keep going. And maybe she is. “Yeah,” she says finally. “You’re still here.” The words hang between us, heavier than anything I’ve ever heard. I feel it then, the gap between us, the space where something could’ve happened if I was someone else, someone better, someone who didn’t ruin every goddamn thing he touched. I open my mouth, trying to find something else to say, something that’ll turn this around. But before I can speak, she stands up, slipping her coat on like it’s a shield. She doesn’t look at me. She just moves, graceful and unbothered. And just like that, she’s gone. I’m left staring at my empty beer glass, the noise of the bar swallowing up the silence she left behind. I should’ve known. Another night. Another failure. Same old story. Fool for one more love * * * * * The light cracks through the blinds, thin and pale, like it doesn’t want to be here anymore than I do. My head’s splitting open, like a cracked skull under too much weight. There’s the taste of ash in my mouth, like I’ve been chewing on regret and whiskey all night. It’s the usual morning after, the kind where you can’t remember much except the feeling of your stomach twisting itself into knots and your heart beating a lit- tle slower than it should. A slow death, each beat a reminder of how many times I’ve been here. And I’ll be here again, too. Always here. The room smells like the leftovers of a bad night. There’s an empty bottle of whiskey beside me on the floor, and I don’t remember finishing it, but I’m sure I did. I finish most things I start. The bottle’s half-full, half-empty, whatever you want to call it—doesn’t matter. It’s just another thing to fill the void. I sit up on the edge of the bed, my feet hitting the floor like a man who’s walked that path a thousand times. I don’t need a mirror to know what I look like. I can feel the bags under my eyes, the sweat on my forehead, the tremors in my hands. I’ve been through it all before, and yet I always act like it’s new, like I can change something, like I can make it different. But I never do. Cian Doyle The sheets are cold, and the smell of last night lin- gers in them, thick with perfume and desperation. I don’t even remember her name. That’s the worst part. I don’t remember anything about her except for the way she looked at me, the way she walked away when I thought maybe—just maybe—there was something real there. But hell, I can’t blame her. I wouldn’t stick around either. Who the hell would? I drag myself to the bathroom, eyes still blurry with sleep. I can’t stand the sight of myself, but I look anyway. The reflection’s not much different from the one I saw the day before, or the day before that. Same tired face, same tired eyes, same regret. I don’t know what I’m looking for, maybe something to re- assure me that I’m still alive, that I’m still kicking. But there’s nothing. Just the same worn-out bastard looking back at me. I light a cigarette and lean against the sink, exhal- ing slowly. The smoke curls up and disappears, just like everything else I’ve ever tried to hold onto. Maybe I should’ve said something different last night. Maybe if I hadn’t cracked that stupid joke, or leaned in a little too much, or smiled like I had Fool for one more love something worth smiling about. Maybe I should’ve just been quiet, let the silence speak for me. But that’s not how it works. I never know when to shut up. Al- ways talking, always trying to make something out of nothing. I can hear her voice in my head, that flat, disin- terested tone she used when I tried to impress her. “That was awful,” she’d said, and for a second, I could almost see the disgust on her face, like she was look- ing at a bug crawling on the floor, something beneath her. It stung, but it was deserved. I’ve done it to myself a hundred times before, I’m just too stupid to stop. And yet, here I am, lighting another cigarette, as if it’s going to change anything. I pull on a jacket, the same old one I’ve worn for years. I don’t even know why I bother anymore. It’s not like anyone’s going to notice, not like anyone’s going to care. I’ve been invisible for so long, I’m used to it. I grab my keys and head for the door. I don’t know where I’m going. Doesn’t matter. The bar’s always open. It’s always the same. I’ll sit at the same table, with the same drink in front of me, waiting for the same thing to happen that’s never going to happen. Cian Doyle But hell, maybe it’ll be different tonight. Maybe this time, the girl will laugh at my stupid jokes, or maybe we’ll talk about something real. Maybe she won’t walk away, leaving me alone in the smoke and the stale beer. Maybe ...just maybe, there’s something out there, something that can make this all worth it. But I know that’s bullshit. I know I’m just lying to myself again. The door slams behind me, and the cold air hits me like a slap in the face. The world feels a little more real out here, a little more brutal. The streets are empty, the way they always are when you’re too old for an- yone to notice, but still too young to stop hoping. I shuffle down the street, my shoes dragging along the cracked pavement. Every step feels heavier than the last, and I know I’m just walking towards the same thing I always walk towards: nothing. But I’ll keep walking. Because what else is there? I hear a car drive by, the engine purring like a hun- gry animal, and for a split second, I think maybe I could just get in, tell the driver to take me anywhere. Anywhere but here. But then I remember, I can’t run from this. I can’t run from myself.