“There is no connection here that’s deeper than the surface, but I feel a distant tide shift.”
Float
| 1 |
“That’ll be $6.50,” she spits traces of stolen liquor. Her impatience seems absurd. Then again, my concept of time is unique. How long was I standing there with my hand in my pocket?
Not long.
Acid burned in my arm when I reached for my wallet, and it forced me to pause and reflect longer than the bartender was comfortable with. She clears her throat.
“Six doll-ers aand? fiff-tee cents-ah,” she stabs with daggers.
“Oh, I’m sorry...” I try to read her name tag, but it’s faded, “...ssCind-andy; Candy?” I shake off the burn and give Candy a crumpled ten.
“Ack-chew-ah-lee,” she thickly says, “it’s Cindy.” She scoffs and turns to the register.
I walk away before she can give me change and hope my tip for a premixed old fashioned will warm Cindy's cold demeanor, but perhaps I shouldn’t expect much patience. I sense her coming back to complete the awkward transaction—I’ve moved on. There is no connection here that’s deeper than the surface, but I feel a distant tide shift. I glance for acceptance but catch an eye roll—disappointment begins to swell.
We cannot please everybody.
I nod and scan my surroundings. The hotel bar is as bland as my drink. The soft lighting absorbs color and mutes complexion. Musac trickles from the ceiling speakers and muffles through a yellowed veil.
With nothing to do but wait, I wander over to a window overlooking the outskirts of a dense metropolis; I can't be sure which one—my memory cannot be trusted.
Dusk finishes the frigid winter day. The cloudless sky blends from deep navy to burn orange. This particular evening is deceiving and can be mistaken for a summer night when viewed indoors, five stories up. Street-level, though, reveals months of frigid evidence: peppered mounds of black snow and salt-scarred sidewalks, slush stubbornly refusing to freeze, people bundled in coats two seasons too old.
Up here, the dimly lit bar tries its best to project on the window, but it's thin interior competes. My eyes struggle to adjust focus between the two worlds. I swirl ice to catch my ghost in the reflection. With the turn of my wrist, I’m again reminded of my sore arm. Each subtle motion pulls strands and seams. I lift the glass and gulp the cold bourbon to quiet the ache.
A minor nuisance, restassured.
I study the room for a place to perch. Previous experience taught me to pick a spot opposite the main entrance and inconspicuously wait. The bar is almost empty. Other than the annoyed bartender, only an eager couple away on business is present. Business cards had been exchanged with wedding band tan lines. Liquid courage will surely close this deal.
They are of no concern.
Finding my spot, I settle in; eyes fixated on the door. I know that manipulating a match will never be as rewarding as letting one happen organically, but I’m unsure of how else to proceed. Once again, I'm a victim of routine.
I finish my drink but would rather not deal with another order, so I continue to keep watch while chewing on ice. Twenty minutes seem to pass, but I don’t check my watch to confirm—it's much too soon.
The couple stand and stumble toward the exit and pass a potential opponent coming in. Eyes tired from time change, his stomach rumbled for food, but a drink would have to do.
He will do.
Alcohol can sometimes help speed up the process—alcohol and a general penchant for tomfoolery. Too much alcohol can make for an easy mark. However, results are never honorable or sportsman-like, only sloppy and testosterone-driven. I'll be cognizant of his drinking habits to prevent an ugly scene, that is, if I have any control over my actions at all.
I notice the man is married. For these purposes, gender and marital status don't apply, but just in case, I slip a familiar weight over my ring-finger and listen for an echo of the past. I can hear nothing but gurgling thoughts that are not my own.
Focus. Commonality is the key. Focus.
He orders a drink from the bitter bartender and shakes his head at her attitude. My arm begins to twitch. As he carries his drink away, he walks toward the window and struggles to see beyond his faded reflection. Time begins to expand and contract, testing its elasticity. I take a moment to make sure I exist and am not just an empty chair cooling in the passing moments. I’m still very present, although not for much longer.
He looks around the room and sees me. I lift my glass of ice and nod. We both drink, and I extend my sore arm for him to join me.
| 2 |
“Are you even listening to me?”
I wasn’t. Her voice fell into a vacuum just shy of my ear, making her words hollow and tinny. Certain words made it past the vacuum and startled me to auto-respond.
“...foreclosing...”
Uh-huh.
“...mistake...”
Don’t say that.
“...over...”
What? No.
I don’t know exactly when our marriage ended. When I look back, it seemed to take place in someone else’s dream, as if my own dream wasn’t vague enough. Sometimes I would find myself wandering the city for hours, numb to interactions around me.