The Regulars

There are regulars at the pub I work at. They are there every day, some of which come in the mid-afternoon and stay until early evening. Those are thr "hardcore" ones, we'll say. And then the older ones come and drink their bottled light beers and their rose wine. Nice enough, most of them, and some are lovely. One of their own has just past away and so they spent the hours today drinking and talking about the man, his flaws and attributes etc...
But I think mostly they were whistling past the graveyard. A shitty thing to say, maybe, but their faces told me true. It could've been me, their faces say. I'm glad it wasn't me, their hearts say. Is that going to be me, is what that tiny, timid, meek voice that's buried so deeply in my gut says. So I just gently whistle along with all of The Regulars.