Cross-legged he sat on a mound of moss beside the ravine when a glinting bottle bobbed along. A bottle he recognized as the finest of local whiskeys. A favorite, and he hooked it with his walking stick.

Turned out within it, downed galleon, was a letter, protected from the water with a cork from County Cork, no less. The best.

The note, penned in ox-blood ink from a quill of gold flecks, spoke words to crack a man’s heart. Told the tale of a chance long past. When he last saw or felt his own youth. When he had it all, his strength his looks his energy. At least he could never lose his charm.

All these treats, which he mistook for traits, they would disappear. Atrophying imperceptibly, until, almost overnight, they were gone.

He knew for sure it was all over when one day he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror and thought he was being robbed. He did not recognize himself.

If he were to be honest his confidence took its first big hit when the proposal went unanswered.

He had asked for her hand in marriage, told her to meet him at the docks if her answer was yes. But she never showed. And then he lost her. His reaction was he retreated to his dismantled life of a person who sleeps but never dreams despite his favorite whiskey for a soporific.

On clement days he visited this riverbank, to keep a semblance of routine in his near astral existence, inebriated at most times.

The note told him her answer was yes, she would meet him at the docks. Where he never saw her. Was she lying? Had she boarded a boat? Had she run away, to a convent, to a whorehouse, to America? This was all some years ago now. Fiercely, squashing time, he wanted to communicate with her. He had questions, and he had resentments. He wanted to reach out, but he knew he should not.