I’m drunk. A bouquet of red roses in my hand.
Blazer. Button-down. Skinny jeans. Leather shoes.
It’s raining. Drizzling. I’m chain-smoking out front of The Red House on Winthrop Street.
Abe texts me: She’s here.
I’m fucking nervous, I reply.
You drunk? he asks.
I don’t respond.
If I still worked at Cactus Cafe, I would’ve been invited. I’d be there already. With Abe. And Morgan.
And her.
I don’t know what I’m going to say. Do I just hand her the flowers and walk away? Go to the bar? Wait for her to join me. Tell her I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I should’ve listened. It was all just a misunderstanding.
I light another cigarette, but the rain kills it.
The roses don’t mind. They’re used to it.
I take out my last nip. Drain it. Slap myself in the face a few times.
Stumble down the stairs into Grendel’s Bar.
It’s dark, but not dark enough. I feel exposed. My skin is sensitive to the air. Post-acute withdrawal syndrome. A shiver rattles my spine. I spot Abe and he waves me over.
She’s at the head of the table.
It’s her birthday. Twenty-six. Wearing candy red lipstick. In perfect contrast with her dark eyes. The exact color of the roses. They’re in my hand, but I feel foolish.
The roses were a mistake.
Everyone sees me, but they don’t look. Some whisper, but I hear every word.
Her hair is tied back. Her dress is black. It sculpts her body like the shower water did. Curves created to ruin me.
Abe tells me to sit down. Order a drink.
All of my old co-workers.
Everyone sees me, but they don’t look.
She sees me, but she doesn’t look.
I sit. Order a bourbon. Abe’s drinking a Moscow Mule.
So is she. The copper mug’s a dead giveaway.
I look at the bourbon, then the roses, the droplets of rain clinging to the plastic wrapping.
I close my eyes. Down the whiskey. Stand. Nod to Abe.
Leave the roses behind.
I want her to follow. To come running. “Wait! Where are you going?”
She doesn’t.
There’s no scenario, no alternate timeline where she does.
I’m soaked, wandering Cambridge with no umbrella. I duck into The Garage entrance and light up, checking my phone.
Nothing.
When you’re in, you’re in. The world and all its intricacies seem to make sense.
When you’re out, you’re out for good. Life becomes a jumbled catastrophe.
So you lie and justify: I’ll do better next time. Things’ll be different. I’ll be different. I don’t need this fucking place, these fucking people… Her. Besides, once I’m back behind the bar… Once I’m there, there’ll be no fucking stopping me. This was just… This was…
I take a long drag from my cigarette and listen to the ember burn. I have $15 in my blazer. A crumpled ten, torn five, and some change. I remember months before when I wandered this same Square with nowhere to go. Drinking bum wine to keep warm. When nothing but the next second mattered.
What do you do when none of your seconds matter?
You disappear, I think, finishing my smoke. Vanish into the crowd. People forget you. We all eventually become memories. You’re not special.
I’m not special.
I close my eyes and open them in front of the liquor store next to Otto’s Pizza.
C’est Bon! Market & Liquors. I know this place. The glinting, meticulously lined and polished bottles. I ask for a pint of Old Thompson, flash my ID.
“I remember you,” he says in a European accent. “You want free Coke to wash down? Take,” he says, pointing to a cooler full of cans.
“Sure,” I say.
“You drink for sorrow?” he says, reading my face.
“I drink for oblivion,” I say, handing him the ten, accepting my change.
My loss.
Great work, sir. 👍
hits home, great work, so much said with so little