The bar is empty and I couldn’t be happier.
Actually, I could. I could be much happier, but that’s not going to happen, not tonight.
My hand clutches the bottle with a white-knuckle grip I usually reserve for a steering wheel, or the lithe creature sliding up behind me.
I pour out two shots and with a flick of a finger, send one sliding down the bar in her direction. I let my shoulders sag and I sink down into myself. I don’t feel like talking tonight, and she respects that. I just want to sit here and forget about everything. Just once.
From the corner of my eye I watch her throw back the shot as the scent of sweet Scotch tickles my nose. She places the glass back on the bar, handling it like a piece of fragile Ming dynasty China. I just stare into mine.
A grip on my shoulder, tender in intention and her breath on the back of my neck then she’s off, her heals tapping across the hardwood floor; tap, tap, tap.
The only light in the bar is a single candle, it’s ruddy flame dancing and flickering; casting long, suspicious shadows on the rows of bottles opposite me. It’s taunting me, it’s calling me out.
”You could have saved him,” the flame whispers and laughs. “You could have, you know?” I try to ignore it, but it won’t go away. It’s reflection in my glass manifests itself into the wiry little man we cast back into the ocean not an hour ago. I watch him squirm and struggle, trying valiantly to claw his way back up to the surface, but to no avail. Eventually he stops breathing and falls helplessly to the bottom of my ounce of Scotch.
The candle light dances a celebratory rumba. It cheers and hurrahs my failure, reveling in my calamity. Live it up, pal. Enjoy it while you can.
I empty the glass, quick and sharp and my throat burns. Holding the glass before the light, I examine it carefully, noting it’s contours and refractive properties.
”You failed,” whispers the light, “you… failed…”
The glass falls upside down over the candle with a soft pat and the light goes out. I’m left in the dark, perched on a stool, hand still holding the bottle in a death grip, looking at my mistake through a veil of nothingness.
With a soft C Major chord Phaedra finds the piano. She plays a stirring tune sampled from the rhythms of the dark flowing around us.
”There’s always tomorrow,” she says quietly.
”There’s always tomorrow,” I repeat.
I grip the bottle tighter.