Snow swirled around Blaines face as he bent to undo the padlock that secured the gate to a metal eye cemented into the New York City sidewalk.  The gate was a rolling metal apparatus much like a garage door, constructed of heavy-gauge steel.  Late at night, the gate protected the glass front of Charlies Tavern from would-be vandals and thieves. 

Rolling the heavy gate upward, Blaine fished keys out of his pocket and unlocked the deadbolt on the front door, stamping the snow off his feet as he walked inside.  Blaine switched on the lights, and his eyes immediately went to Table 6, where a dirty glass and a bottle of Bushmills Irish whiskey sat on the table.  Blaine tilted his head up to look at the ceiling.  "Uncle Charlie," he called loudly, "you could at least branch out.  Try some bourbon or a nice, single malt Scotch." 

As always, there was no response from Charlie. 

For as long as anyone could remember, Charles Anderson--the curmudgeonly Charlie of Charlies Tavern--would end every night with a shot of Bushmills on the rocks.  He locked the bar behind the last patron, he counted the money in the till and placed it in the safe, and then he poured himself a glass of Irish whiskey and sat sipping it until it was gone. 

A little thing like being dead was no reason to change the habit of a lifetime. 

After more than five years, Blaine was used to seeing an empty glass and a slightly-less-full bottle on the table every day when he opened the bar, despite leaving the place pristine each night.  He was used to cleaning the glass every afternoon and putting the whiskey back on the shelf.  He was used to the idea that the bar was haunted by its former owner, who hated everything Blaine was about when he was alive but still left him his bar in death.  Uncle Charlie disdained Blaine, but Blaine was still his favorite relative.  Charlie was like that. 

Sure, it was a little annoying that Charlies ghost didnt take kindly to any changes Blaine tried to make to the tavern.  Even a little thing like moving the old beer mug that held extra pens from one end of the bar to the other would result in it being moved back during the night.  Trying to automate the serving system by bringing in a computer had resulted in strange system glitches that had the tech guys scratching their heads.  Changing out the dusty light fixtures for brighter, modern ones ended with each new one inexplicably smashed on the floor the next morning.  Eventually, Blaine gave up on the idea of change and kept the bar much as it had always been.  In a way, the sameness was comforting. 

The one change Charlie had embraced, though, was the removal of the old juke box.  Charlie had never liked the loud, tinny sound it produced.  He liked live music, but he maintained that hiring bands was a hassle.  Blaine had solved both problems by transforming Charlies Tavern into a sessions bar.  Local musicians were invited to bring their instruments into the bar at any time and play alone or with others from the pubs corner stage.  Word of mouth had spread like wildfire, and almost immediately budding musicians began to show up from each of the five boroughs to jam together and stretch their musical talents in a variety of directions. 

Eventually Blaine enlisted Sam, an occasional model and his best friend from high school, to coordinate a nightly musical theme.  Any musician who showed up had to play within the oeuvre, and Sam always had crazy ideas.  Blaine was astonished that guitarists would flock in from all five boroughs for Swedish Metal Night or Highland Fling Night.   Tonight was "A Tribute to Dwight Yoakum."  It didnt appeal to Blaine, who didnt care much for country music, but it would likely bring a hundred people to the bar. 

Blaine methodically retrieved mixers from the refrigerator, filled the ice bins, and checked the taps.  He called a local locksmith about the dodgy mens room lock.  He pulled money out of the safe and counted it into the till.  

As he worked, his mind wandered to the email he had written and deleted that morning.  It made him think about the last time he had spoken to Kurt so many years ago, soon after Blaine had confessed to cheating on him. 

The night of the confession there was a screaming, tear-filled fight where Blaine had alternatively apologized and also shouted some things at Kurt he wasnt proud of. Afterward, Kurt had refused his phone calls, texts, and emails and tossed flowers and other peace offerings in the trash, according to their mutual friends.  But after a couple months of fruitless but repeated attempts to explain to Kurt, to apologize, and to just talk, Kurt had finally answered a phone call. 

"Kurt," Blaine had breathed, swamped with relief. 

There was no sound for a minute, but then Blaine heard a sob and a shaky intake of breath.  Then Kurts voice came over the line, broken and weak, "I cant do this, Blaine.  I never thought you could hurt me so much, but youre hurting me more every time you try to contact me.  Please stop.  Im begging you." 

Blain felt the crush of those words to his very soul.  The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Kurt more.  When he could find enough air, he whispered, "Youre right, Kurt.  Im sorry." 

Blaine hung up, and it was the last time he talked to Kurt. 

That night was also the first time he wrote an email to Kurt that he didnt send.  The he wrote another and another.  Each time he wrote an email, he deleted it without sending.  It was pointless, but he couldnt bring himself to stop.   Maybe he was more like his Uncle Charlie than he thought.