“So jaded,” she laughed. “Whenever I see you it’s always the same. Anyone else would look positively martyred, but then jaded always came so naturally to you. Tell me, do you think I’ve changed? Be honest.”
He shook his head slowly. Two flecks of small white saliva formed at the edges of her mouth.
“I’m thirsty,” she lied.
“What would you like?” he asked.
“Same again.”
He looked at her blankly.
“What’s that?”
“Oh sorry, large Peach schnapps.”
She watched him order her drink without saying a word. In the back mirror of the bar bodies blurred, moved decapitated, without arms or legs. There her world was tried, tested and bottled like a genie bound to do her bidding.
“Still having a good time?” he asked returning with her drink.
“Oh absolutely,” she said. “You can’t imagine how happy it makes me seeing you here. How long has it been five years? Or didn’t I see you last Tuesday at Angels?”
He nodded in a way that neither affirmed, nor denied her question. Behind the bar a phone rang. No one answered. She noisily rattled the ice around her glass.
“You are funny,” she giggled. “Really you are one of the funniest people I know.”
“That’s right,” he said. “I am.”
“So, tell me did you ever go back at all?”
“No, I never went back.”
“I said did you ever….”?
“Many times.” He stared at his drink before throwing his head back with a quick, robotic motion.
They moved a little further away from the bar. Both exit and entrance were lost behind a solid flood of shining hair. Up close she could see where he had cut himself shaving. The scar was old as though rusted on the vein.
“That looks sore,” she said feeling her neck like to find a pulse. Behind the bar the phone kept ringing.
“Touch of the shakes,” he said quietly, “Nothing serious.”
She idly kicked his shadow, but it didn’t move. He winced.
“Did you really think it would be different?” she asked him. Once again he shook his head.
“I know what you mean. I used to ask myself all the time. Why do any of us come back?”
Now a name was starting to come to her; a Richard or a Ray she once knew. The carpet on the floor was dark, stained claret. So jaded without memory, summer closing in old friend, old enemy. She spotted something in the bottom of her glass and picked it out. A dead wasp lay glistening in her palm. Clasping at straws she tried to remember a telephone number, but couldn’t. His eyes were black and handsome.
The crowd was still growing. No one was leaving.
“Your lip is bleeding,” she said.
The tip of her tongue felt sticky as she probed for the cut.
“I expect the glass must be chipped.”
Out of nowhere a sobbing girl lurched past them. Her peach dress was soaked in vomit.
“I can’t see anything wrong with it,” he said holding it up to the light, “Can you?”
She shook her head. The phone rang off, and this time she was certain. She had never seen him before.
“Thirst, can be a strange thing” he said.
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