She sat alone at the bar, caressing a vodka and staring down past two empty shot glasses.
The smoke in the pub was fairly thick, the smell of new and old ash and alcohol and vomit and tired bodies and too much cologne hung like bricks in the air.
A bad jazz band moaned on a short stage in the corner. The sax was out of tune, the drummer couldn’t keep time with a firing squad, the piano had several broken strings that kept rattling around, and the trombone thought he was something special.
She wasn’t listening. She lifted her cigarette to her lips and breathed in.
The darkness shrouded the tables, some empty, some sprawled with drinks and elbows, some in shadowed corners, some with cheap lamps hanging over them.
“Ye alright, love?” the bartender inquired. She shook her head, no. “Ye ahn’t drivin’ home, ah ye?” Again, she shook her head. She never looked at him, only through the shelves behind the bar. “Alright, love, but ah think ye’ve had enough.” She nodded.
A mousy little man sauntered up and sat on the stool beside her. “Hey pretty!" he called as he proudly announced his name. When she did not respond, he clicked his tongue, “Oh, so glum.” He smiled evilly, “I like the dark ones. What say we go find someplace to get feisty?” She didn’t move, still ignoring him and staring into space.
He tried to get a rise out of her by slapping her behind, but he never came close. He felt the bones in his hand break before he realized she’d even moved. The crunching sound and the yelp he gave caught the bartender’s attention. Her hand calmly returned to her glass as the guy yelped again and staggered out of the pub. The barkeep phoned 911 to inform them of a drunk with a broken hand wandering about.
“’Ee didn’ touch ye, did ‘ee?” She shook her head and took another drag on her cigarette.
The band started to pack up. People gradually filtered out, but she stayed where she was, perhaps oblivious.
“Ye got anywhere to go, love?” asked the bartender.
“Only home,” she said softly as she brought her glass to her lips, at first a sip, then the whole thing down without flinching.
“Ye’ll stay ‘till ah close then. Ah’ll walk ye home,” he said, more like a big brother. She shrugged almost imperceptibly, stacked her glasses, and dragged long and hard on her cigarette.
The bartender started cleaning up. The bouncers left. She was the only patron remaining. The bartender watched her out of the corner of his eye. Family trouble? She might be young enough for that. No, not that kind of expression. Lover trouble was more likely. Yes, the way she stared into space. But maybe she was lez. After all, she broke that poor bastard’s hand. But she stared like his ex-wife had when she’d found out her lover had cheated. Ah, the irony, stupid bitch, he thought as he remembered for a moment.
But that still didn’t quite fit this girl.
“Ah’m lockin’ up now, ye ready?” he asked. She slid off the barstool, not seductive, just short. Holding the short stub of her cigarette in her teeth, she donned her long coat. She jammed her hands in her pockets and ducked out the door he held open for her. She stood under the eaves out of the rain as he locked up.
“Do ye want to talk about it?” he asked gently. She flicked her cigarette out into the rain, listening to it hiss.
“There’s not much to say. He was subtle like a two-by-four, and I don’t like being slapped.” Her expression never changed, and even though she was talking to him, she never looked at him. He noticed that she held her liquor very well, her words not slurred in the least. They ducked out into the rain, and her step was sure as a mule’s.
“That’s not really what ah meant.”
For the first time all evening that he had seen, she made eye contact with someone. Despite his pride in her progress, he wished she hadn’t chosen to look at him. Her eyes didn’t match, for one thing. Her right was dark blue, but her left was grey, like steel. But that wasn’t the most disturbing—behind her eyes was pain. He had never seen such pain before, like she had nothing left in the world, like she would commit suicide in a moment, but she lacked the courage to pull the trigger. Her gaze met his for only a moment before he had to look away. Looking into her eyes was like looking into the sun, bright pain burning through his skull.
He looked down and she sighed, like she’d lost something else, one more piece.
“There’s not much to say on that either. I loved him, he loved me, and now he’s dead.” Thunder rumbled, empty.
He was a little startled.
“Ye killed a man?” he asked.
“No.” Simple, matter of fact, but not like he was stupid. He was a mite relieved. She walked up to a shabby apartment building.
“This is where ye live?” She nodded. “Well, ah won’t ask to come up with ye. But all the same, get some sleep.” He hesitated. “And don’t ye worry, love,” he added. “Tonight was on the house. ‘Tis the least ah could do.”
“I paid,” she started to say, but he waved his hand. She nodded and he caught a glimmer in her eye that wasn’t rain. He didn’t think, just gathered her into his arms as she cracked.
He held her as she sobbed, her tears mixing with the rain on his broad shoulders. He steadied her quivering frame with his stocky, powerful body. She must have really loved him, and now he’s dead and she’s got nothing left.
Eventually she quieted. He released her gently, making sure she could stand before he let her go. This time when she looked at him, the pain was dimmed a little by her gratitude, not for the tab, but for giving a damn.
After she went up the stairs, he never saw her again. She didn’t seem the kind who would leave an obituary. He hoped she had just moved on.
In a way, he found, she did. He checked the police record in the newspaper, looking for what had happened to that asshole with the broken hand. He found instead three sentences he’d hoped not to.
“Police responded to complaint of a gunshot in the Perihelion Apartments on 15th Ave. Emergency crews found one woman dead, apparently suicide. Police declined to reveal the victim’s identity.”
All he was left with was a haunting memory of the pain in her eyes.
