Illustration by Jillian Rees
The ground is sticky. You lift your boot, cringing as your rubber sole peels off the buffed cement floor, hooking your heel on the gold footrest beneath the bar. You probably come here too much—enough to know the leather backsplash is actually made of vinyl; that there’s a crack in each of the three circular mirrors hanging above the gin. It smells like dirty mop water, bleach and spilled beer. Fry grease wafts in from the kitchen, which comforts you. Even the over-served regular swaying back and forth on his barstool, with one hand deliberately placed on your knee, his breath hot and smelling like cheap tequila, is reassuring. You don’t do anything but stab your olive and smile.
It’s loud in here tonight. You much prefer the quietness of a Wednesday when the cute bartender with the slicked-back hair talks only to you. Normally you’d position yourself in front of the cash register for this very reason, but with tonight’s crowd, you’re forced into the corner, smashed between the wall and the regular, who’s now consumed by the couple next to him that won’t stop making out.
You’re too old for this. You tell yourself you’re done after tonight—sure of it this time. Olive juice and Hendricks slides down your throat.
The front door opens. At first, you perk up at the cool autumn breeze fanning the back of your neck, but then . . . Shit. He’s here. Mr. Charisma. His voice is loud and booming, just as you remember it. You straighten up as if someone has yanked an invisible thread up your spine. You don’t want to look right away, so you tilt your ear toward the sound, but you can hear that voice getting closer, the smell of his too-strong, amber aftershave hovering. You clench your glass and swirl the liquor, surprised that your grip isn’t shattering the stem. What do you normally do with your hands? Quickly, you reach up to fiddle with your hair, remembering fondly how He used to push it back from your forehead. You start to do the same, then, embarrassed, drop your fingers and take another sip.
The bartender’s pouring a Maker’s Mark—it’s a double and you already know that Mr. Charisma will swallow it in two sips. He’s greeting patrons like a politician—high-fiving the guy in a Yankees jersey; planting a kiss on the cheek of the woman wearing all her diamonds. Your breathing speeds up. You realize your glass is empty, so you motion for another. You still don’t turn around.
Does he still have that dark, thick hair you’d run your fingers through, you wonder? He must still have those coarse patches on his chin because even if he shaves in the morning, it just grows back by mid-afternoon. You remember how he liked surprising you with presents. You’re wearing one—that bracelet with the purple moonstones. Is that a sign? Angrily, you shove it deep in your pocket.
You’re such a fucking idiot. Why didn’t you dress better? Finish that degree?
Slowly you crane your neck.
He’s tall, taller than you remember him being, so you search for something to hate. His mouth is still too big for his face. When he used to kiss you, it was wet and sloppy. More than once, you had to spit out his saliva.
Your fingers splay out across the bar. Fuck. That knot in your left shoulder blade twists as you realize . . .
He didn’t actually bring her here . . . did he?
She’s standing just over his shoulder. You want to be feminist, tell her to run, but you can’t help feeling that sour burst of nausea spike up your throat. Too young for him, that’s for sure. Stupid. Weak. You want to scream about their seventeen-year age gap, but what’s the point? She’ll twirl her fingers through her shiny hair; reapply unnecessary makeup to her poreless skin. She thinks it’s charming how loud he is, profound that he quotes obscure authors and paints when he’s sad. If you hadn’t found those texts on his phone, you probably still would too.
As the bartender flips a bottle, the smell of Maker’s Mark and red wine swirls into your nostrils. You don’t want to remember, only you can’t help but think back to that one night around Christmas when the snow stuck to the fire escape outside his window. You were both curled up on his couch watching British television, candles lit, takeout eaten. That night, you drank Tempranillo you’d stolen from The Penrose, and had mind-blowing sex three times, the twinkling white lights of the Christmas tree you decorated together glowing in the background. You stayed awake long after he fell asleep, staring up at his attempt at expressionism—a painting of a frozen woman burning in a fire. Back then, you likened it to you—some muse of an ice princess thawing from love—but now you realize he’d painted himself. Untouchable. Iced out. Cold and fleeting like the snow.
You motion for another martini and down it quickly. What number is that? Three? Five? Why hasn’t He noticed you yet? You’re drunk but not yet sloppy. You’ll leave before that happens. Catch a cab, stumble up the stairs to your fourth-floor walk up. You pick up your cell and your fingers move slowly but you put a note in your phone with the name of the bar you’re at—sober you will appreciate the breadcrumbs.
There’s a toothpick at the bottom of your glass.
This is the last time. No more after this. You’re sure it’s a promise you’ll keep.
Finally, you get the courage to talk to him.
You spin round, but He’s gone. Instead, you catch brown eyes staring at you from across the room—like yours, but glossier, brighter. Yours did that once—shimmered with certainty—back when He wanted you. You feel suddenly small. She looks sad for you. You want to tell her to mind her own goddamn business, but instead you feel pathetic and sick. Quietly, you avert your eyes.
Where did He go? You take another drink.
“Hey, last call alright?”
Startled, you glance up at the bartender. Your brain is spotted now. Your vision begins to blur. You blink hard. Suddenly it’s quiet. Nobody’s there anymore, just you.
. . . What?
Where is He? Or she? You turn and nearly sway off the bar stool, your foot landing on the sticky floor. Across from you is one of those round mirrors with the crack.
Oh . . . You realize.
There she is.
Older now. Wrinkled skin around her mouth, dark circles under her eyes. You’re not sure if you’re glad or angry about this. You can still see how her hair used to be shiny. How her poreless skin and glossy eyes made her twinkle. You’re sad for her. Tipping the last of your drink into your mouth, you think about how you miss twinkling.
“We’re closing,” the bartender says more urgently. “Do you want another drink or not?”
Mr. Charisma hasn’t been here for years. In fact, you’re not sure what happened to him, not after that night, years ago, when you ran away, fists shaking, from his apartment.
“One more,” you tell the bartender. Staring back at the mirror, at least you’re not alone. Another martini is set in front of both of you. Your brown eyes meet and you make another promise.
This is it, you say. For good this time.
In the mirror, she stabs her olive and smiles. Cheers.