Bruce, I forgot about him. Haven't had the pleasure of his company since drone strikes became popular. He comes to play darts owning dental challenges and a Christian conscience. You've been in my prayers, he says. I shake his hand, some skin comes off, and I roll it into a little ball, flick it, and it lands in the olive tray. Bruce uses his dart to stab a cherry in the garnish trough, eats it, then heads to the board, throws a bulls-eye, as I throw the cherries and the olives into the trash.
Terry arrives looking for an answer. Answer Terry, that's what I call him, forever asking questions about how to get laid, where to get laid, will he get laid, shall he get laid, can he get laid, what does it mean to get laid, who will lay him, why will they lay him, why hasn't he got laid, all big question marks missing in our zeitgeist of connect. Bruce scores another bulls-eye.
Have you tried Tinder?, I ask Terry, pointing the finger at him, swiping his dollars from the bar for his beer.
I don't read books, he says.
That's Kindle, I say.
His phone does text only.
Bruce hits a bulls-eye.
At closing time, Bruce stabs an olive with his dart, eats it. He shakes my hand, some skin comes off, I roll it into a little ball, flick it, and I think it lands on Terry's hair. Direct hit. Bulls-eye! There's no answer to life's connections. Let's go home, alone.