It’s in the moment of recognition that I think, Walk away. He hasn’t seen you. You still have time. But I don’t really want to escape. Like everyone else I stare at the accident, open the diary, check the messages, walk up to the bar and say hello. My timing is calculated in such a way that for the briefest of moments I’m in the driver’s seat.
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It’s been three years since we met at a rooftop party on The Fourth of July. The heat had everyone shining with the kind of sweat that feels good when you're high, and like death when you’re not. Like all things that catch fire, we lit up when we saw each other, burned brightly for a while and then expired.
The invisible dividing lines of Los Angeles conspired to made the break up easier than, say, in a place like New York where the ease of travel can find you tip to nose all in one night. In L.A. people do not journey West of Lincoln, East of Western, South of Santa Monica. The invisible map is complex and assured once you live here a while. It’s just that sometimes, someone gets adventurous, and ends up on the wrong side, on the wrong night.
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A fresh shot lies at his fingertips. He picks it up and says “Down the hatch.” As the empty glass hits the bar and shatters, he smiles up at me, squinting, and says, “Hello again.”
I stand awkwardly, wishing I had thought things through. I have a sudden desire to say I am expected elsewhere since I should be laughing in the corner musically, or kissing someone passionately, drinking conspiratorially with the bartender. I should not be caught out here alone.
He leans over and kisses my left cheek just above the bone and I smile at his touch – it escapes before I can stop it. He speaks and I hear only the cadence of his voice, not the words. A memory of us together, laughing, stumbling, breaking everything in our path. I feel damp with liquor and lust and sense my nostalgia spinning me vulnerable so I respond with flippant responses and witty repartee. I want him to remember how great I am. I want him to regret he hadn’t forsaken it all for me.
He shifts his body on the barstool and a sudden brightness – headlights from a car – peeks through the blinds. It is harsh, not golden like in the movies, and throws a hard, ugly shadow across the room. For a brief moment I can see myself reflected in his eyes and wonder if Independence means being alone and instead of celebrated, should be mourned.
