What can he say? Realistically, what can he say? Whiskey knocks at his doors, the tenseness of the air around them whips away the cordiality and the ease of their rapport and returns it to razorblades and sharp edges. He raises his hands a little, a soft gesture of defeat, a shrug, a what do you want me to tell you?

Sorry?

What a small and insignificant word. What a tiny, insulting fucking word. What a pebble in the face of a mountain. He doesn't say it because he knows saying sorry is like trying to carry water in a pasta strainer. It's full of holes and it's fucking useless, all you accomplish is a wet floor and a rise in anger.

When he drops them back down onto the bar top it's with a little too much enthusiasm, or maybe with just too little grace. They thump loudly on the wood, a jarring sort of noise that shakes the glass on the table.

Darkly, he mutters: "Add it to the list of shit I can't undo to you."