Joe came up to the bar and hooked one elbow over the polished top. He wanted to sit down, but forced himself to stand.
“Honey,” he said hoarsely, “what night is this?”
“What night? Joe, you ⸺ fool, this was yore weddin’ night!”
Joe sagged visibly and Honey caught him by the arm.
“You better set down,” advised Len.
Joe allowed Honey to lead him to a chair, where he slumped weakly, staring wide-eyed at Honey.
“My weddin’ night?” he whispered. “Honey, don’t lie to me!”
“Nobody lyin’ to yuh, Joe.”
Joe slid down in the chair, his face the color of wood ashes. He lifted his right hand almost to his face, but let it fall to his knee.
“Don’t lie, Honey!” It was a weak whisper. There was still hope left.