a moonblind night

"I told him once I think you're the strongest person I've ever known," he admitted, eyes lowered. The glass in his left hand was more or less empty. What was he drinking? A seabreeze? I couldn't even remember.

I said nothing. Smirked. He raised his eyes to meet me just as I lowered mine. Don't let him think he has connected.

"That's absurd," I started. "I'm the weakest damned soul on this here Earth." I smiled at how I had said that. It came off country-bumpkin and that made me consider my father. I wondered briefly what he was doing then, allowing my eyes to come back up to glance around the tavern. It was closing in on 10:00. The band was thumping louder and louder. Everyone around was drunk or almost drunk. The beer inside my belly swirled and glimmered. I felt it collide with my blood; felt it pulse towards my brain.

The waiter neared our table and pointed to my glass. I nodded. Another Smithwick's it was.

I didn't look to see if he asked Chris for another drink. I assumed he did, and I assumed Chris ordered another. Maybe he was drinking greyhounds. Why couldn't I remember what he liked, anymore?

"No," he said, banging his glass loudly on the table. "You are!"

I laughed. He looked sad. The waiter returned with new drinks. I still couldn't pinpoint what Chris was drinking. It was pinkish; cloudy.

"I don't fall in love," I said, feeling anxious. I didn't want to talk anymore.

He took my right hand in his left. I squirmed uncomfortably, gulped down half of my beer in one swift move.

"And that's your strength," he began, but I frowned and so he stopped.

"You're wrong." I looked around. A woman was dancing alone. She wasn't smiling, and neither was anyone else.

Or so it seemed, anyway.

"You're beautiful."

"You're drunk," I replied, pulling my hand away and swallowing the rest of my beer. Then I stood up and walked out.


Outside, it was raining. No one walked the streets, which struck me as peculiar for a Saturday night. The whole damn city appeared empty. Lights even seemed dimmer than usual. Chris lagged behind me. Perhaps afraid. Perhaps just lazy. I walked, thinking about the abandoned gas station that I found in the woods three years ago. I thought about the person who buried it there; wondered if he thought no one would ever find it. I thought about the graffiti on one of the tanks: Ken & Donna 198one, and the mattress springs lying rusted and coiled around leaves and vines. Perhaps it was once Ken and Donna's bed. I pictured a young couple sweaty and smiling in the dark with empty Budweiser cans scattered like rose petals around them. I wondered if they were still together, if they got married and had their own mattress inside their own home now. I wondered if marriage counted under canon law if the couple had sexual relations on a mattress in the forest before their wedding. Perhaps Ken and Donna were long separated by now. Or perhaps they still found each other at midnight in some mysterious forest with similar mysterious abandonments.

Perhaps...

Centering myself, I realized quickly that I had no idea where I was. I had walked myself into an alley and Chris hadn't followed. I was at once relieved and overwhelmed with worry. Chris hadn't followed? Where were Ken and Donna 198one? Where, for that matter, was anyone?

I pivoted on my heels. The difference between where you are and where you want to be. Ken and Donna 198one. I touched the damp brick of some unidentified building. He had been drinking baybreezes, right? It must have been baybreezes.

I've spent all my time trying to disconnect without realizing that by doing this, I have created more connections than I can count.



with love and squalor,
ekw