New York, 1995.
He empties drink after drink, gradually becoming less picky about what. He settles for cheap alcohol, puts the glasses down on the sticky table with a dirty clunk, the surface of the table as morose as he is. He chugs the last bit down, something sweet and barely discernable, looks around at the dimly lit bar where he stumbled in not half an hour ago. The walls are dark blue or dark grey or even black, the worn booths are evenly spread out along the wall, as a last outpost from the tables by the bar. The waitress, in her thirties, tired, scurries over to him with the bowl of salted peanuts he can't remember ordering. She puts it down expertly, places some of the glasses on a tray and takes off again, relieving the table top of it's numbing ingredients. He tries to come up with a plan, for him, for life, for anything. His mind draws a blank.
From his place in the corner the bar seems almost empty, too catastrophic in its licking, apparent downfall to attract even the most crime-hardened regulars. He stumbles out of his seat, leaves some bills for the waitress, a financial pat on the back for her good riddance. It's difficult to pull on his coat, a royal blue wool jacket that only serves to remind him of his mother and his brother's painstaking betrayal of the same. After mild violence he gets one arm in, and after some waving it around, the other arm as well.
He edges around a table and its betrothed chair, careful not to bump into anything. He nods at the bartender and has almost passed the long bar desk as he sees the girl sitting in front of it. He pauses, plastered, turns to look. She is wearing a gray sweater, the long sleeves churned up to her elbows. She's wearing jeans, the long legs neatly placed, crossed, angled out from the high chair. She is deeply absorbed in a book, has stretched it flat atop the surface and he cringes because he already knows that she's a book marauder. Whatever she's reading is interesting, if her crouched posture is any indication. He staggers forward to sit down next to her, awkwardly still in his coat but it's okay since he's about to leave, really.
"What are you reading?" he asks, deterred by his gravel voice and the vices apparent from it. She glances at him, briefly, holds the book up but does not let go of it.
The Old Man and the Sea.
"I love that book," he croaks, fidgets with the thick fabric of the coat.
"The book is flattered," she retorts, the comeback perfect except for a lilt in her voice from held-back laughter that says more than any novel should.
He struggles for a reason to stay, to deploy himself in the chair right next to her. He opens his mouth to apologize for the sodden remark. He stops. To admit it would be weakness, and he is the last person to drag it down upon himself.
"I'm sorry," he says, despite himself. "I don't know why I sat down."
He pauses. An afterthought that comes slowly, reluctantly. "Because I'm drunk, I think."
He should leave and has decided on it when she puts the book to the side, turns to face him fully. "Do you always drink on Tuesdays?"
Shocked at her interest, suddenly dismayed from his self-worth, he stumbles to think of a reply.
"Tough day." as if that explained it, an answer as professional as the officers that had knocked on his front door.
She shifts in her seat, gives him a once-over, "Where you from?"
"Portland," he says curtly, knowing that it won't render him any points in her favor. The little suburbian town never does, incapable of any greatness aside from the countless organic coffee shops. "I live on 5th Street," he admits, that too unimpressive.
She furrows her brows. "And honest too," she says, her dark eyes quaint. He know he's being compared to countless others.
"Not really," he agrees, continues down the traveled path. "Where do you come from?" he asks, but knows her answer won't matter despite that it's a part of her, as much as her coarse, bustling hair or the outlines of her shoulders seen through the thin fabric of her shirt.
"New Jersey," she says and there's a faint smile playing at the corner of her lips. She glances at the clock on her left wrist, a neat model with a black strap. "I should go before I miss my train," she continues.
He doesn't know if he's being turned down.
Most likely.
She graciously steps down, grabs the coat that has been hanging by her feet. It's red and comfy-looking as she puts it on. There is an equilibrium when she is done.
"You could always come back," she says, and a little bit of warmth spills out in his chest because she's asking him.
He takes in the sight of her, not tall but trusting of herself. She wears boots, he realizes. The sensible book marauder puts a strand of hair behind her ear, and suddenly it's there, a wicked smile.
"I drink on Tuesdays too sometimes."