Lonely Bones

          Death liked to sit at bars. He bought beer, just like everyone else. Of course, it didn't have any effect. But Death liked to pretend that they did. After a rough day, what other way can Death actually unwind? I've heard golfing can be relaxing, but it's so difficult to grab the clubs with those bony hands.
          No, pubs were Death's preferred option. The socializing was His favorite part. All the men scattered throughout the bar were either intrinsically cheerful or excessively prone to violence. Death just ignored the short-tempered ones. Not that it’d matter if He got in a fight with one of them. He couldn’t very well deliver Himself to His own final destination. What an absurd and wild idea!
          Death had a system to His drinking, or rather His non-drinking: He would strike up one random conversation every night, hoping that He might find it worthwhile. There were precious few occasions in which the people actually spoke back and even fewer when the victims of discussion were truly engrossed. Most bar-going humans just stared vacantly at the wall, answering every question with the same monotonous slur. Death didn’t make many long-time acquaintances. He had only truly connected emotionally with a man once. It was a Wednesday.
          As Death opened the door – He didn’t open it; He had no need for doors – a lone figure caught His eye. Bottles lay strewn about the man. Some were tipped over, and some stood tall as if to say... well, to say nothing. It was a bottle. It was inanimate, and couldn’t keep the man company. It couldn’t talk to him.
          That’s why Death decided to toss this lonely drunkard into His nightly conversation. Bones creaked as Death took a seat on the stool aside the unsteadily swaying stranger. The man stared intently at a slightly skewed yet recognizable flower-shaped stain on the counter. Death felt bad distracting the man from his pressing affairs, but He wanted a conversation, and this man had his whole life to stare at stains.
“Uh… what kind of work are you in?” Death inquired, awkwardly itching the back of His neck. It was more of an embarrassed itch, seeing as bones hardly ever itch.

          There was silence from the stain-watcher: the normal reaction. Then, after a moment, he drew his arms tighter around his pile of empties, and turned away, withdrawn. Death noticed the drunk’s forlorn and shy face. It occurred to Death that the man was just as lonely and awkward as He.
          Death left him to his thoughts. So it was that Death sat next to the man in silence, and was comforted. Maybe He wasn’t so alone.