He stood with his back to the bar watching patrons drink and talk about subjects submerged under sober uneasiness and pride. The clinking of glasses irritated him, but also excited him in a familiar way. The sounds of nighttime always allayed his loneliness. Knowing others came to the bar to escape the unrelenting fate of solitude, he sighed with relief and scanned the room for the next person he would escape with. When he first started his job he was reluctant to introduce himself to pretty girls, sure that behind their kind eyes lurked only the inscrutable desire for attention and a free shot. Quickly learning that they were eager to offer more than their attention, he felt no harm in indulging in fleshy validation. Growing numb with every encounter and regretful with every number tossed away he began to fall into a blissful nothingness.
Music echoed loudly through the speakers. Girls danced provocatively only to get guys' attention, shaking and gyrating unspeakable wants. Guys salivated over the knowing motions and clumsily attempting to get attention by laughing too loudly and pushing each other. He watched with amusement this weekly charade in which he never partook. Then he saw her. She had been watching him from across the room, patiently waiting for him to notice her. He did. A panic came over him, paralyzing him. It was her. A girl. The girl? He had been with so many he could not be sure.
It was a night like any other when he met her. Immediately writing her off as an easy target, a notch in his bedpost, a girl to conquer and leave abandoned. Though she was different from the rest, uneasy in her approach, unsure of her fingertips that lightly brushed his arm. An unrecognizable timidity crossed her face when she laughed at his awful jokes and smiled innocently at his mundane, cliched compliments. Her eyes penetrated him when they exchanged anecdotes, she peered into a place he was so far removed from he knew it didn't exist. Yet he went through with the selfish, debilitating act. She woke up next to him in the morning and her presence startled him. Usually he opened his eyes to an empty room and a warm spot where a nameless victim previously laid. Demurely pulling up his sheets to her glowing body, she grinned at him with unknowing- purity. He felt sick. Telling her he had to be somewhere soon he feigned agitation as he glanced at the clock by his bed that read 10 AM. Without saying much, she moved quickly, repeatedly apologizing to him, dressed and left, but not before giving him the warmest, most sincere kiss he'd ever received since he moved to the city from his small town. In that single kiss he remembered who he had been and what he had become. She left. He looked in the mirror, trying to see that place she saw. He had been withdrawn for so long he forgot who he was. His face looked haggard and old. Dark circles ringed his eyes- black pools of malcontent and horror. He almost screamed. What had he done? What had he been doing? All these girls. All these people. He began washing his face, gently at first then feverishly, rubbing his face raw, trying to scrub away himself. In his search for affirmation he abandoned thought, feelings, reason. These girls were nothing but meaningless shells in which to hide his vulnerability. With every girl he marginalized he lost a piece of his humanity, a multitude of self-respect. He began to resent them, the girls. They never gave him want he wanted, what he needed. They were instant gratification, fleeting validation, false hope. But in one kiss he saw what he had been suppressing for as long as he could remember, but made a great effort to forget. And until tonight he thought he had.
The music all of a sudden got too loud. The charade on the dance floor turned into a frantic, impassioned fight amongst the sexes, then a mindless, erratic orgy. He felt dizzy. Nauseated. The room spun and he ran to the bathroom past eager faces clutching dollar bills, anxious for another drink, past lusting eyes, past apathy, past fear, past loathing, past everything and everyone that reminded him of himself. He let go of all the guilt, the pain, the anger, the bitterness, staring at it mildly, swirling around in a bowl of indifference. He felt better. Much better.
He sauntered back to the bar, holding himself gently. She stood in front him yet seemed so distant. He looked at her. She looked at him pitifully. He was pathetic, she thought, yet felt a pang of what she didn't know. Maybe it was understanding- or affection. Shuddering nervously, embarrassed by the thought of their passionless night together, she finally broke the awkward silence.
"Hi. How've you been." She had to lean over the bar so he could hear her speak.
"Fine." He lied. She knew he was lying. He looked down at his feet. She smelled how she smelled the night they first met.
"Um," she paused, he looked up imploringly, "Can I get a whiskey ginger?" He stared at her unable to comprehend what she said then finally replied,
"Sure. Yeah," he gave it to her, "It's on me." He said those words, pleading for her forgiveness. She refused his charity and his apology. She finished her drink at the bar, staring into his eyes as she gulped, the whiskey and carbonation burning her throat sweetly. She put the glass down. Waiting a moment, she pierced him again with her eyes. She kissed him. He could taste the whiskey and ginger on her cool lips. His eyes closed, she pulled away, put her money on the bar and left. He stood awe-struck. The music played. He never saw her again.
I'm out.
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