sour

Assignment #4: overheard at a bar

Thursday night is my quiet night. After work, I walk over to the local pub, sit at the bar and read my book. Two amaretto sours, fifty pages or so, and I head home. Thursdays are sometimes local band nights; mostly, though, it’s quiet. The bartender and I are on a first name basis. Alex usually has my low-ball poured by the time I sit down.

One night, on a particularly warm February night with dry sidewalks and a quiet wind, I walked in to find the place crowded. Clearly the natives were restless and had come out to play. I actually had to manoeuvre my way to the bar. Alex removes an empty beer case from the stool furthest from the stage, giving me a wink. He’s a good man, that Alex.


“Anyone decent?” I ask. Alex shrugs. Guess not. I pull out my novel, a suitably deep dark and wintry tale of murder and scandal. I’m pulled in immediately. Have you ever been so engrossed in a book that time passes without you noticing? This is dangerous in a bar where an empty glass is taken as a signal for a refill. By the time I look up, my head is a bit woozy. I count the empties – three. Yikes. I stand up, but sit back down. Perhaps I’ll wait a bit. I put $30 down and ask for a water. Alex helpfully gets me a glass with a lemon. I nurse it.

“I just don’t get it; I just don’t understand what her deal is.” Two guys are sitting beside me, trying to talk to each other over the band. Great. Guy one is wearing a grey sweater with a white shirt, with his back to me: crisp. Guy two is in a U of T sweatshirt facing me. It’s Grey that doesn’t understand.
  “So, what, she just showed up? At your door?” Sweatshirt replies, handing over a beer.
  “Yeah, man. At my door past midnight. I don’t even know how she got there. She’s all plastered and pushy.”
  “Didn’t she break up with you?”
  “Yeah, she did. She went on and on about being sorry and started crying. She was a mess.” They both stared at their beers. “I couldn’t let her go home like that.”
  “What happened in the morning?”
  “Nothing. I took the couch and by the time I woke up she was gone.”
  “The fuck?”
  “Yeah.”
  “You’re better off without her, man.”
  “Why did she do it? Why did she come over just to fucking slobber all over me and my pillow?”
  “ ’Cause she’s a bitch? I don’t know. You can’t let her in, man. Put her in a cab or something. Make her go home. She’s bad news.”
  “Yeah.” More silence. “Yeah, you’re right.”

My head’s clearing up, the initial buzz fading without further sustenance. I can stand and put my coat on without stumbling. Good thing I’m only ten minutes from home. That’s when I notice a woman on the other side of Sweatshirt, slowly swirling her martini, brooding. She starts talking; Sweatshirt has to crane his neck to face her.

“You know why she came over to slobber on your pillow?” They’re both speechless. “It’s because she can. Because she knows you’ll tuck her in, take the couch and not say anything about it. You’re her insurance policy. You’re the guy she keeps on the backburner. Move if you can. Don’t answer the door, if you can’t. Block her from your life. She’s not just bad news. She will ruin any chance of happiness you may have if she thinks it’s going to interfere with hers.” She puts her empty glass down (stem up) and walks away.

“The fuck was that?” Sweatshirt asks.

“The truth,” I reply, as I head to the exit.