Untitled (Part VI)
31.
What are we trying to be? I don’t know anymore. Look at us now, different than before- closer, if only a little. A little older, maybe a little smarter (though that’s debatable considering our immediate situation). We are certainly more weathered, worn and exhausted, tried and reluctant, the product of our own back-handed actions. We are the enemies of complacency. We are the band aid on the wounds of our self-inflicted pain, slowly tugging at the skin, afraid of a clean, quick pull. Which, though, is more painful in the end?
32.
We walk into the bar. It’s not as dark as I had expected and I guess it’s kind of like a restaurant, too, but we don’t ask for a table. I lead us to an open spot at the end of the bar. There are a couple people sitting there. No one interesting though, no one worth starting up a conversation about. I take a seat at the bar, pulling a chair out for her to sit first but she says, “I’m going to use the bathroom real fast.” I say, “Okay,” but I don’t ask if you want me to order you a drink. I don’t want to impose.
33.
The bartender comes over. She’s short and kind of cute, light skinned with glasses, and when I notice her I’m already wondering if I should try and hit on her at some point in the evening. How terrible is that?
34.
She asks, “What can I get you, amigo?” I say, “Just a beer for now. Stone, please.”
“It just you?”
“I’m here with a friend.”
“They want something, too?”
“Probably. Not really sure. She’ll be right out.”
“I’ll grab you that beer then.”
“’Preciate that.”
She walks away just before Dom gets back. “I got a beer,” I tell her. “Didn’t know what you wanted though. Still drink Rum and Coke?”
“Not anymore, not really. Thanks though.”
35.
The bartender returns. She turns and asks, “And what can I get you?”
“I’ll just have a Whiskey Ginger Ale.”
“Really?” I say.
“Sure. Why not?”
The bartender says, “Coming up.”
“When did you start drinking that?” I ask.
“I don’t know. When did we break up?” (Markers in time such as these seem to be the only way I can identify events in my life).
“May.”
“Since then, I guess. I guess I was just in the mood for something different.”
“Yes. I can imagine.”
36.
Most of the time I’m comparing other girls to you: the way they do their hair, the clothes they wear, the way they walk, the way they talk, the way they would write me if we wrote each other, if they would use complete sentences or if they would abbreviate everything the way I hate that people do, the way that you don’t. I’m wondering what they smell like, if they smell like you, if they taste like you, if they would feel as natural in my arms as you felt, and I’m wondering what kind of food they like, if they like ice cream or if they like frozen yogurt. I’m wondering if they fall asleep early like you, or if they stay awake until their eyes can’t hold themselves up anymore. I’m comparing their teeth, their hands, their smiles, their frowns, their laughs, their eyes, their mouths, everything from their brains to their toes and everything in between. I’m always comparing, and I’m always coming up short.
