Slice Of Life

He loves me. Of course, he does. He thinks of me all the time. OK, not ALL the time; I do lose him for a few hours at night. I’m the one he thinks of when he wakes up and when he drinks his one daily cup of coffee. I’m the one he thinks of when he gets into his white Lexus and drives to work. There, in his ballroom-size office overlooking its twin building through tinted glass, he is all business. He is friendly when he greets new hires and polite when he lets people go; he is cool-headed as he dominates all others negotiating a deal in his soft and calm voice. Still, I am there.

It is already dark when he’s finally done with work. He gets back into his car- oh, I love this car; not a speck of dust, baby-skin soft leather seats, all controls are at the tip of his fingers. He drives to The Towers and pulls into the underground garage. The elevator takes him to his eighteenth-floor apartment. He opens the door, letting the lights turn on automatically. He throws the keys on the counter and stands in the middle of the room. It smells like linen, clean and modern. There’s not a lot of furniture; what is there is all designer’s, just like everything he has. He loosens his tie and unbuttons his shirt.

He pours himself a drink, turns off the lights and walks to the window. He stands there, starring at the city below. It looks like an alive being. A creature made of people, cars, buildings of glass, fluorescent lights of bars and restaurants. Its veins are the streets, avenues and bridges. Its blood is the endless stream of headlights. Its dark secret is the river which shimmers like an opalescent snake. The sky is black, devoid of stars; a few airplanes with their blinking red lights are like mysterious man-made fireflies, taking off for parts unknown.

And he thinks of me. With his looks, manners, career, and uptown life, he is wanted by many. But he belongs to me and me alone. I’m the only one who knows how fast his heart can beat, how it bursts and tingles in his chest when he wakes up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. I am next to him when he lays in his empty bed brought back to the reality by the bitter feeling of guilt and the memory of what happened three years ago. The memory of that cold snowless winter night when he abandoned me in Nepal. When he left me behind to survive by my own means. When he just walked away.

He puts the empty glass on the white counter, goes down the elevator and walks to the bar two blocks away. A noisy and slick place. I do not like it.

He orders a drink and then…he tries to forget about me, a memory locked in his chest pocket.

I parked the rental Toyota at the hotel and walked three blocks down the street to the bar on the corner. I felt like collapsing but put one foot in front of the other; the laughter of a brown-haired woman who was crossing the street reminded me of my soon-to-be-ex back in California. Why should she get the dog? Just because she named her? Bling. What a stupid name for a dog it was! Kids. Custody. Visitation. I am a bad example! Not mature enough! I cannot even think of it.

Revolving frosted-glass doors let me in. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I walked toward the bar and sat down at a brushed metal and leather stool. “Double scotch.” I looked at my phone. 9 PM. I’ve got an early start tomorrow morning. “Double. On the rocks.”

“Here you go, sir.” The bartender, a tall guy in his forties with short black brilliantined hair, placed my drink in front of me.

“Cheers.” This was exactly what I needed. Bitter cold taste going down my throat followed by the warm wave coming up from my guts to my head. I sipped my drink, looking at the shiny glass and white marble counter with grey inserts. The bar was crowded for Wednesday night. But, then, it was in the middle of the business district.

“So, what is it? Business crowd?” I asked the bartender.

“Yeah. Business. Very few locals. Some oldies.”

“Oldies? Who?”

He smiled. “Business oldies. Long term contracts, you know. Up to a year, maybe even two.”

“You know your customers well?”

The guy looked at the drinks order and started to mix cocktails. “Sure.”

“Those?” I nodded toward the group of guys in the corner.

“Beer drinkers. That one,” he pointed at a guy in his late thirties dressed in designer clothes who seemed to be the loudest of all, “that one is the oldie. He’s got a year-long contact here I was told. Easy customer. Very predictable.”

“Predictable in what way?”

“Same time, same drinks, same game plan.”

“Meaning?”

The bartender moved a tray of clean wet glasses closer . He picked up one, wiped it off and holding it at his eye level examined it. “Comes in alone around 8.30 PM. I can tell he had a drink already; he sits down at the same table, orders his drink.” The bartender recited without taking his eyes off the glass. “Takes a picture out of his chest pocket, looks at it for a few seconds, puts it away, gulps down his drink. Orders another one.”

“The same way? Every night?” I had the last sip of scotch diluted with water. The first sip is always the best one, I thought and crushed the ice cube with my teeth.

“Almost every night. And he gets wasted. Leaves about two in the morning when the bar is closing. He lives in one of those hi-rises nearby. The Towers, I think.”

“Do you ever talk to him?”

“No. What for?" He said while rolling the thin long stem between his fingertips. "I’m just getting him what he wants.” He looked at his own reflection on the side of the glass. “Which is forgetting.”

He noticed that I was done with scotch. He picked up my glass. It left a round colorless print on the counter. He cleaned it. “Another one?”

I looked at the blank marble counter. Seemed like neither scotch or the last half an hour ever happened. It was wiped away by an attending hand whose sole purpose was to give me what I wanted, which was forgetting. It was what I wanted. Right now. 

I noticed a couple in their late twenties walking by on the street. They stopped at the window and looked inside. They saw the white marble counter, the row of bottles against the brightly lit glass wall, the bartender, me, the group of guys in the corner cracking jokes. They exchange indecisive look, squeezed each other’s hand and went on.

“No. Just the check, please.”