Since all life is futility, then the decision to exist must be the most irrational of all. (Emile M. Cioran)
There had been a lot of talk and in between, a lot that was implied and interpreted. And you let him. You preferred his assumptions to what was really happening in your head. Almost anything was better than that. Except that you had no other choice. Some things are better left unsaid, despite what he always claimed.
You could talk your way out of almost anything, but when it really mattered, you had nothing to say, least of all for yourself. You lacked the words. This should have been his domain, but he struggled to articulate these things for himself, understanding you would not be able to follow him into the realm of the dying.
Little did he know or imagine.
And then there came a time when you stopped talking, when words were no use anymore even if you could have shaped them.
So you let him believe what he wanted, what gave him some form of comfort maybe. The penultimate kindness.
And now, you are teetering on the edge of a pain so vast you can't see its edges. It will swallow you whole if you let it. Nothing matters anymore anyway. It was always going to end this way, one day. Except you always expected the circumstances to be different.
In the end, the outcome would be the same, though.
That the sequence was wrong didn't matter, in the end.
He had been sitting there for the better part of an hour now, and she had refilled his glass twice. He put cash on the counter when he arrived, asked for bourbon and told her to "keep it coming until this runs out." Counting a decent tip, he was about halfway through.
It was still early, so her boss had eyed the newcomer with some suspicion at first. But as long as the till kept ticking over, everything was fine.
Guys drank for fun, out of habit or to drown something inside. This one looked like he fell into the third category, but something was off. He wasn't maudlin enough. He kept his head down but had been watching people since business had picked up. Happy Hour here was a misnomer - it was neither happy nor was it an hour. But it drew people in and kickstarted business most days, and all was fair in love, war and alcohol sales as her boss liked to say.
Every now and then he touched his jacket pocket. The jacket covered a rumpled shirt and a faded tee, but even those layers couldn't conceal his long, lean frame. He didn't engage with anyone, but his eyes flashed with something whenever she caught a glimpse. There was life in there, of the kind you couldn't be sure you wanted to encounter up close because it was sizzling with danger. She knew that kind of life, and she had said goodbye to it two years, four months and 17 days ago.
There was barely a coating of bourbon left at the bottom of his glass now, and his fingers slowly spun the glass around. He hadn't yet looked over, but she had a moment, so she took the bottle from the shelf and made her way over to his end of the bar.
When she put the bottle down next to him and he looked up she knew she had interrupted a silent conversation he'd been having with himself. She wondered why he was even here when he could have just as well bought a bottle somewhere and drank at home. But why did anyone ever come here? It was warm, it was dry and there were people here. The illusion of not being alone seemed to be enough for many. It sure was enough for herself at times.
"Help yourself," she said.
He hesitated for a moment and then replied with a nod. He refilled his glass and set the bottle back down, very deliberately and carefully. Like someone who has had a few and is mindful of not letting it show, she thought.
He had been watching her work since he arrived. It was the only interesting thing to do in this place. He hadn't been among a lot of people lately, but now that he was, he knew it was nothing he would miss.
Lou – as someone had called her earlier – was efficient. She was quick but not so that she would exhaust herself. Fast enough to earn decent tips but not so fast that she would be unable to walk home later. Because there was no way this joint paid enough for rent, food and a car. She was a long-distance runner, not a sprinter. A night could be long in places like this.
He knew a professional when he saw one. She joked where jokes were expected, and she kept it zipped where chatter wouldn't be welcome. He appreciated that she could tell the difference.
He had come here to get buzzed just enough to take the edge off. He wanted everything to be a little blurry, not completely dark. There were things he needed to do.
The last time he had gotten thoroughly wasted had entailed teary-eyed confessions from Wilson which he hadn't wanted to hear at the time and didn't want to remember now. He hadn't touched a drop since because he needed to be present and clearheaded.
The first bourbon Lou had poured had warmed his belly and then gone past that lump in his throat straight to his head. A sure sign that he would have to take it slow. A little buzz was fine, but no more.
The clientele was a mix of miserable and boring. In his experience, it was a short step from miserable to bad-tempered, so he had surveyed the room when he came in and picked a spot at the end of the bar that would give him an easy exit if necessary. He didn't expect a brawl, but he also knew he was in no shape for any kind of trouble. Getting into a barfight was not part of the plan. So far, nothing had happened. And if it did, Lou behind the bar looked as if she could handle a little ruckus.
He glanced over. She was the opposite of delicate – lean and strong, built like a swimmer. Her curves, if they existed, were well concealed by old jeans and a loose-fitting t-shirt, and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. It was almost as if she was trying to be deliberately unattractive. Not plain, but not made-up to encourage sales or even make men linger longer than they had planned.
"If you keep peeling off the label, I'll have to take that bottle back, you know," Lou stage-whispered over the din of the jukebox where someone had just selected a Tom Waits song. What an odd choice, in a place like this. He looked up and saw that his fingers must have been picking at the label for a while - one corner was already gone and in shreds on the bar.
She sends me blue valentines all the way from Philadelphia
To mark the anniversary of someone that I used to be
And it feels like a warrant, out for my arrest
Baby, you got me checkin' in my rear-view mirror
So I'm always on the run that's why I changed my name
And I didn't think you'd ever find me here
What an odd choice, he thought again. And yet, how fitting.
He pushed the bottle back towards her. He had enough now anyway.
Lou raised an eyebrow. "Your money hasn't run out yet."
"Deduct a tip for yourself."
"I already have."
Of course. The customer would be three sheets to the wind when the money ran out, and tips wouldn't even feature on his mental map anymore.
"Double it."
"Thanks. Are you sure you're done?"
"Do you want to make me drunker than necessary?" he asked and pulled himself up a bit.
"Necessary for what?"
Good question.
"Who knows. The night is young, even if you and I are not." He winced as he shrugged. "I would apologize but I'm sure it won't make a difference."
She took the bottle and set it back on the shelf.
"Our customers usually don't apologize for corny lines."
"I didn't either."
"Touché." She looked at him for a second. "There's a Waffle House down the road. I'm on a double shift, but if you hang around long enough, I'll take you out for dinner. Breakfast. Whatever you want to call food after midnight and before bed."
"I'm not sure this is a good idea."
In answering, he realized it was true. He was no company for anyone, not even himself.
"Suit yourself. But if you decide you'd like to talk to someone else, not just whoever you're talking to in your head, let me know." Lou shrugged. "I made some nice tips tonight, so I'm good for it."
He watched her as she walked over to a couple who had arrived a few minutes ago. Nothing about her was exaggerated, everything was natural movement and efficiency.
His face looked old in the dull bathroom mirror later, and he took a moment to rest against the sink. The reflection was a stranger's. He felt like travelling through a foreign country where he didn't speak the language and didn't know the rules. She had made an offer, but he didn't know what was implied. If anything. There was a time, not that long ago, when he would have read any subtext as easily as an x-ray of a broken wrist.
Maybe she's genuinely a nice person. Not everyone has an ulterior motive. He heard Wilson's voice right next to him and felt that lump in his throat turn into a stone in his mouth. He would have to form words around that later if he took her up on the offer, appear normal when he hadn't felt human in days. Weeks, even.
He made his way back to the bar and tried to think about nothing at all as he nursed his remaining drink. He hadn't eaten much today, and he knew how alcohol worked in his system. More would cloud his judgment, and he couldn't allow that to happen.
For another hour or so, he continued to watch Lou do her job and listened to music chosen by other people.
He could just get up and leave. But it turned out that habit was a stronger force than he had reckoned with. To break with routine, you needed energy and drive. And that was the problem. He had scraped the barrel the last few months. Habit and motor memory kept him on his seat. It didn't hurt that it was a pleasure to watch Lou work. And tomorrow was another day.
People left, and no new customers came to take their place. Finally, only he and two men at a back table were left.
"I don't know about you, but I never go to bed hungry, so I need some food now." Lou pulled on a leather jacket that had seen better days. "My boss can kick out the two in the back. Not my job."
He hesitated but missed the opportunity to decline the unspoken invitation. As much as it surprised him, there was no resistance in him.
Slowly, he climbed off the barstool and took his cane. By the time they reached the exit, he had achieved the resemblance of fragile normalcy.
They stopped for a second just outside the back door. The cold air slid down his back and made him shiver and think of early snow. He took a sidelong glance at Lou next to him. She wasn't quite a head shorter than him. The worn leather jacket suited her. It almost made him expect a motorbike, not the old Accord she led him to.
Her car never got a chance to warm up. "We could've walked this," he said. She could have.
"Maybe." She shrugged. "But it's cold."
The Waffle House lights were inviting. Inside it was warm. Hot, even. The smell of food in combination with the heat almost overwhelmed him so that he had to steady himself against a booth.
He was reminded of the dozens of diners he and Wilson had frequented in the last few months, all of them blurring into one now, merging into the spot he was sitting in right now. Except it wasn't Wilson opposite him but a good-looking woman whose intentions he couldn't figure out.
"Why?"
"Why what?" She didn't take her eyes off the menu.
"Why did you take me here?"
"Because you didn't refuse."
"Don't be a smartass."
She sighed and put the menu down. "Because you look like you could do with a good meal."
"I'm not a stray puppy you found by the roadside."
"And I'm not in the habit of picking up puppies or any other strays for that matter."
"Which brings us back to my question," he said. "You invite a man you met in a bar, a man whose name you don't even know, into your car and take him for dinner. That's not normal behavior. It's risky behavior. Did your mommy not tell you not to talk to strangers? I could rob you blind when you're not looking."
She looked him straight in the eyes, and he was intrigued to find a spark. "My mother told me a lot of things, most of which weren't much use to me so far. So no, I don't think this is risky behavior. I can look after myself." She paused. "I work in a bar. I drive an old car. I have nothing worth stealing. Besides, I'm sure I can outrun you."
It took him a moment to clear the echoes of the past from his mind.
"So?"
"So what?"
"What is your name? You know mine, the way everyone keeps shouting it around when they're thirsty."
"House."
"That's a noun. Does anything accompany that noun? An adjective maybe?"
Lonely. Old. Bored. Desperate. Lost. All of them true. But mostly just incredibly tired.
"Amazing. Fantastic. Dreamy. Stupendously smart. Take your pick."
She laughed out loud. That spark was still there. "Well, you certainly don't have an inferiority complex."
He still hadn't answered her question. And neither had she answered his. A woman with unknown motives invites a man she doesn't know for dinner. Breakfast. It could be the start of a bad movie. Not something he would be opposed to watching, though.
"So, what's good here?" he asked for something to say and pulled the menu from her hands.
"The clue is in the name, take a guess" she joked. Then she added, "Good is a matter of opinion. The food is hot, and they're always open."
He glanced at the options. There were too many. "I'll take whatever you're having as long as it has plenty of bacon."
Lou rattled off the order without looking at the menu. He shook his head when she was asked if they wanted juice. "Just some good, strong coffee."
They waited in silence. At this time of night, the place was empty except for some workers coming off shift. Theirs was the only booth occupied by more than one person.
"You never said why you came."
"You didn't ask."
Before she could reply, their food came. It was hot, it was greasy and there were no greens in sight. His dream and Wilson's nightmare.
For a while, they both just concentrated on the food. She was a methodical eater, picking a bit of everything for each bite.
Eventually, she leaned back, drank some coffee, and looked openly at him. "For someone so keen on watching and figuring others out you're not exactly forthcoming. So, why? Surely not just so you could watch me eat."
He wasn't sure what to say that would make sense to her. How could he explain what he didn't fully understand himself?
"Sounds like watching others is something you quite like to do yourself," he countered.
She shrugged. "Occupational hazard."
"Same."
There had been a time when he had been unable to enter any type of establishment without assessing the pathology present. But the urge to figure out, to know absolutely, had faded.
"What do you do then? You're definitely not a cop."
"Any rookie bartender could spot that from a mile away." House snorted. And then he added, "Doesn't matter what I do because I don't do it anymore." And he would never do it again, thanks to the most stupid and best decision he ever made.
Lou didn't reply, just raised an eyebrow and looked at him, waiting. Maybe she was tired of playing Twenty Questions.
"I was a doctor. Am a doctor. But I don't practice anymore."
He took a deep breath and inhaled the smell of coffee, waffles and frying meat. He was warm and full up with greasy food that would not make him die from a massive coronary one day, contrary to Wilson's prediction. He was sitting here, talking with Lou and playing a game whose rules and objectives he wasn't quite sure of.
This was the first real thing that had happened to him since Wilson died. He had been in a fog since then, and everything had felt like it was happening to someone else.
That was why he was here, why he let a stranger invite him to whatever this was. Why he sat here with a woman he didn't know and finally felt…something.
"A lapsed doctor – is that a bit like a lapsed Catholic?"
In the unforgiving lights, she looked a little tired, like she was ready to call it a night. Her t-shirt was rumpled and sported a few beer stains. Her hair now hung loosely over her left shoulder. It made her look softer. There was a tiny twitch in the corner of her mouth, but her eyes were serious enough. She probably was a fairly decent poker player.
He held her gaze for a couple of heartbeats, then pulled the check out from under a plate and pushed it over to her.
"Something like that. But we can have sex before marriage."
He smirked as he said it, and Lou had to admit, it suited him and those piercing blue eyes of his. He was not a puppy. If there was such a thing, he was the opposite: there was nothing cute or cuddly or helpless about him. But she had never been one for cute, and she knew how not to get bruised around sharp edges.
On their way out, they stopped outside the door when the cold night air hit them. The moon was almost full and pale as a ghost. She wasn't sure if it was Tuesday night or Wednesday morning. Perhaps it was neither. She saw the early frost on her car and shivered. He stood right behind her – he was close enough so she could feel his body heat.
She was so close he could feel her body heat. It was like a halo of warmth around her. If he wanted to, he could take a step forward into this circle of warmth. And maybe that was good enough. Maybe that's all anyone needed. Maybe that was all there was.