Dave held the rock glass like an anchor. He appreciated its heft—a sturdy glass for a stiff drink. He swirled it absently before taking a longer sip. The bourbon stoked a bed of coals in his gut that radiated wave after wave of heat, spreading up his spine and surrounding his mind like a soothing balm over the wounded memories.
“You here to forget?” Said a voice.
The voice sat two chairs over, sitting straight-backed on her stool, holding a margarita like an English cup of tea.
He didn’t hear her so much as he heard noise coming from her direction. The waves of bourbon, crashing against the glass with each rotation of his wrist, seemed much louder.
“Huh?” he said.
“That’s like your third drink since I’ve been here, and I haven’t been here long, so what’s your story evening glory…you here to forget?” Then she smiled, almost as an afterthought to soften her brashness.
Dave didn’t know who this woman thought she was. A spark of anger erupted and flamed out in the span of 1.57 seconds, only registering on his face as a slight twitch in the corner of his lips. She didn’t seem to notice.
“Something like that,” he said, signaling for another drink.
The woman nodded, then retrieved a cigarette from her purse and lit it. The wisps of smoke coiled into the air like a ghostly snake and dissipated into the dim lighting above their heads.
The bartender came over to refill Dave’s glass.
“It’s best to let it ebb and flow,” the girl said. “Take your time and enjoy it.”
Dave opened his mouth, a scathing reply teetering on the edge of his tongue, but the girl kept talking. Then finally asked a useful question.
“Care for one?”
She seemed to know the answer and held out the pack. As he reached for a cigarette, his sleeve slid up his forearm.
“What’s it say?” She said.
He rolled the sleeve up to his elbow so she could read it all.
“Walk on rays,” she said slowly, tasting each syllable like caramel. “What does it mean?”
“It’s only half of the whole thing,” he said.
“What’s it mean?”
He hardly heard her and, pausing to light his cigarette, decided not to acknowledge the question.
“So what brings you here?” He asked. “Are you trying to forget something?”
“Oh no.” She waved him away. “I’m meeting a friend. She should be here any minute. Now she wants to forget, and she doesn’t want to do it alone.”
The girl took a final pull and plunged the filter into the ashtray. Her next words flowed out on a stream of smoke. “She just broke up with some douche.”
“What made him a douche?” Dave asked. “Maybe I can learn a thing or two,” he chuckled. It sounded hollow in his ears and his lips flatlined.
“I’m not sure. I haven’t seen her in a few weeks.”
In the pause that followed, as Dave took a drag, a vague premonition came to him like a whisper, as if it had drifted on a breeze from another world.
Suddenly he felt flushed and adjusted the collar of his shirt. He looked at the woman, really looked at her for the first time. “What’s your name?”
“Ashley.”
Dave knew the name. He sniggered to himself and snuffed out the cigarette. He looked at the ink tattooed into his forearm and unrolled the sleeve.
“Good to finally meet you,” he said, standing up. “When your friend gets here, ask her what the tattoo means on her arm, and you’ll have your answer.”
Ashley looked at him, confused.
And Dave left abruptly. He left the bourbon, untouched, brown and glorious as it refracted the mellow lighting. He left Ashley, the girl he had heard so much about and yet, ironically, had only just met.
As the doors shut behind him, the sun’s variant hues peeked over the horizon in a final goodbye, and he mumbled the same phrase over and over to himself like a hymn.
“Walk on rays, not in circles.”
© 2014 Mike Tannian
Mike Tannian, Troubadour 