The Territorial

He told himself every morning that today would be different. No bottle, no bar, no slurred confessions to the same God he kept disappointing. But by dusk, he’d always find himself walking that slow crawl toward O’Malley’s, a little corner bar that smelled of old wood, sweat, and second chances.

He wasn’t a terrible man, not exactly. He just drank like one. Somewhere along the line, whiskey had become his communion. He said grace before his first shot and begged forgiveness by the third. He never stayed sober long enough to know if God was listening.

The bartender, Maggie, bore a striking resemblance to the Virgin Mary. Not the painted kind, but not all light and purity, either, but the kind you’d imagine if Mary had seen too much, loved too hard, and learned how to pour a perfect gin and tonic. She had calm eyes, mother’s eyes, and when she smiled at him, he swore she was granting absolution.

“Rough night, preacher?” she’d tease, sliding him a glass.

“I’m not a preacher,” he’d say. “Just a sinner who talks too much.”

And she’d laugh, this low, tired laugh that made him think maybe she understood. Perhaps she had her own prayers to whisper after closing time.

He always started with beer, something gentle, something to convince himself he still had control. But control was a myth, like sobriety or salvation.

Before long, the whiskey would arrive, and he would cross himself before drinking. Whether out of habit or guilt, the man couldn’t tell anymore.

“Christ, I’m sorry,” he’d mutter into the rim. “You know I mean well. You know I’m trying.”

The regulars left him alone. They all had their own ghosts to drink with. But sometimes he’d catch Maggie watching him with that quiet pity that stung more than judgment.

“You ever think about stopping?” she asked one night, after the last call.

“Every day,” he said. “Same as praying. I just don’t seem to follow through on either.”

She nodded, poured herself a shot, and clinked his glass. “Then maybe tomorrow.”

It was the kind of thing people said when they didn’t believe in tomorrows anymore.

He walked home that night through streets that looked washed clean by the rain, humming a hymn he half-remembered from childhood. The words stumbled, like he did, but the melody stayed, soft, cracked, alive.

He dreamt of Maggie dressed in blue light, her bar towel draped like a veil, whispering prayers over him as he slept. When he woke, he felt a strange peace, fragile and temporary as the morning sun.

For two whole days, he didn’t drink. He even bought a Bible from a secondhand store, thinking maybe he could start fresh. But by the third day, the silence in his apartment started crawling up the walls, and the guilt, that old companion, came back hungry.

When he returned to O’Malley’s, Maggie didn’t say a word. She just filled his glass.

He wanted to thank her for not preaching, for not giving him that look. Instead, he whispered, “Forgive me, Mary.”

She smiled faintly. “I’m not the one you need to ask.”

“I’ve been asking Him for years,” he said. “He never answers.”

“Maybe He does,” she said, “just not in ways you expect.”

He looked at her, her steady hands, her weary eyes, and thought maybe she was right. Maybe God’s mercy wasn’t in churches or sermons, but in the quiet kindness of someone who kept serving you, even when you didn’t need another drink.

When he left that night, he crossed himself again, not out of guilt this time, but out of hope, but when the door closed behind him with a soft chime, Maggie wiped the counter clean, like erasing a prayer she’d already heard too many times.