Don't Leave Me This Way [redux]

Gentle Reader:

I don't know what happened to Andrew.

I hope, one day soon, to be able to report that he's bartending just down the street, maybe a little farther up Bathurst, maybe on Queen, but not much farther of a walk from my house, at a pub that's just as nice as The Banknote, with just as interesting a group of regulars — or, even better, that all the regulars from The Banknote have moved to Andrew's new place.

I hope that he's happy there, taping headlines to the customer's backs. I hope I'll be one of the tapees again.

I hope that Junior is fine.

I hope to be able to tell you a story like that, but for now, I can't tell you anything because I don't know anything.

Andrew quit, that's all I know.

I'm not trying to be coy. I'm not trying to keep you in suspense. In fact, I considered not writing that story until I knew how it would end.

But here's something I've learned in life, Gentle Reader: We don't always get closure. I chose the story title for a reason.

Andrew:

Are you reading this?

I know you read the first story I wrote about The Banknote. I know that you liked it so much, especially the part about your dragon slaying skills, that you had a printed copy of it behind the bar for days.

I know that you know who Postmodern Sass is.

The comments are turned on, below. If you're reading this, tell us where you are. Use my blog for shameless self promotion of your new bar. I'm OK with that.

* * *
It took him long enough, but finally, he did.