Oracle

Behind the bar, Garvin rang the bell. "It's only 7pm!" Sean said, confused, to his friends. "That's not last call," Patrick laughed. "It's Monday night and The Oracle is almost here." People were shuffling tables, breaking obviously into two camps - the ones moving near the front, and the ones retreating to the back. A small, elderly woman with rosy apple cheeks and soft silver hair came in through the door, greeted the barkeep warmly with a big smile, and sat down on the very first stool. "Buy that a drink at your own risk," Patrick nudged Sean (after they'd settled at a midpoint table - the ones near the exit already taken). "Change your life for the price of a whisky." A line had already formed near The Oracle and the woman was happily chatting with person after person. His friends wouldn't even look in that direction. "RUBBISH," Sean grunted after 30 minutes or so had passed, and left the table to buy the lady a shot. He sat down next to her, grinning cheekily, and she reached over to pat his hand. "Aye, the tortured soul aesthetic is working well for you," she whispered. "What?" he responded, surprised. "It hides all of the ways you don't step forward for yourself and others, how you've allowed yourself to become unreliable. You've got a lot of potential, I'll give ya that ... but you've been listening to the wrong voice. Best wake the angel on the opposite shoulder, make your apologies, and move forward. Thank you for the drink." And Sean sat there for almost a minute afterwards, just staring, before he staggered away with a feeling that he'd been punched in the solar plexus. "WELL?!?" his friends pounced as soon as he sat down. "I'm going to go home," Sean answered softly. "I need to throw up, have a nap, and call my sister." Patrick whistled between his teeth and simply nodded.