A lone black dog sits at the bar, half-lit by the glow of a tired room that’s seen too many nights like this one. The pink walls feel loud but empty, pressing in with a kind of quiet tension, while the red shirt—too human, too intentional—makes him feel exposed. His glass is nearly empty. The moment is nearly over.
Last Call is about that pause before the end: when the noise has faded, the stories are spent, and you’re left alone with whatever followed you in. It’s not about drinking—it’s about waiting. About being the last one standing when the room clears out. About reflection, weariness, and the strange dignity of showing up anyway.
There’s humor here, but it’s dry. There’s loneliness, but it’s calm. Not drunk or sad—just aware. A little older. A little quieter. Like he knows this is the final round, and he’s okay sitting with it.

Interest-free.