Closing Time
The pub has been nearly empty for hours now, and as I scrub down the tables near the door in preparation for my escape into the real world I watch the last patron stare moodily into the oily depths of his ammereto sour. My feet are aching, sending sharp jolts of pain up through my legs with every step, but for some reason I don't want to make the boy leave. He looks so lost, so alone, and I want to give him whatever comfort I can, even if it comes in the form of a murky amber liquid that I know isn't helping in the long run.
Not boy, I silently correct myself. I had checked his ID hours ago when he first arrived, and had been shocked to see that he was actually two years older than me. There's something about this city, I guess, that makes people look old before their time. So when this American came stumbling in to Winnie's I had assumed that he was a teenager up for some fun with the lax Canadian liquor laws, and I had wearily demanded a driver's license. Something about the way his shoulder length blonde hair curls at the end, or the way his soothing caramel eyes even in sadness glint with mischief, or maybe even in the slightly too baggy, but obviously expensive, suit he wears, screams "little boy." He is definitely no child, and I've already seen that he could drink me, and most of the city, under the table. A never-ending stream of shot glasses have absorbed his attention and yet he doesn't even slur his carefully chosen words, "I hate her."
"What?" I ask, positioning a vase of fading roses in the exact center of a nearby booth. I'm intrigued by him and the sense of desperation that seems to leak from his pores and ring hollowly in his empty voice, but I don't want it to show. I don't want him to know that we're all alone in the bar and that I've been imagining a life for him for the past forty five minutes since Carol, the waitress who was supposed to close with me, gave up and went home. He would shop at stores that don't have "bargain" in their names, he would drive a Mercedes, and he would be brilliant, I have decided.
"I hate her." I've been a bartender for a long time, and I've heard many things. But these words, their cold delivery and cutting emptiness, scare me more than anything I can imagine. I'm not afraid of the boy, not like I maybe should be, instead I'm afraid for him.
"Who?" I ask, finally giving in and walking around the bar to lean on the dark mahogany that I have polished until it reflects almost like a mirror.
"Elizabeth. My fiancée." There's no flush of happiness, no downward grin. Instead the boy's…. the man's… eyes cloud over and he looks right at me for a thudding heartbeat before turning his thick gaze back to his nearly empty glass.
"That could be a problem." Another thought that has been haunting me this evening resurfaces when I feel his consideration draped around me: he's beautiful. The way he slumps forward in his stool, the way his feet rest splayed on the ground, the way his strong hands spin the heavy crystal glass he holds around and around on the countertop, it all makes me wish I could watch him forever.
"That's what I've been thinking, but sometimes I love her. Sometimes there's something about her… I don't know what it is, but I wish I did." His voice is the sound of a fire crackling on a frigid night, the feel of wool against my skin, the smell of hot apple cider when my fingers are stiff with cold.
"So what are you going to do about it?" It's the million-dollar question, or at least in my world it always has been. I don't get a chance to sit and think I don't have the luxury to contemplate over fifty dollars of the best booze in the metropolitan area. I have to decide if I want the heat shut off next month or the lights; I have to decide if I'm going to pay the minimum balance on my credit card or eat lunch this week. So I guess I'm not the person to come to in times of delicate psychological need. I swerve wildly through life, making snap decisions that would probably kill this boy if he ever had to even imagine them.
"Nothing. Well, tomorrow I'm going to go to get my tuxedo fit. Then I'm going to do nothing. Elizabeth's got the rest all taken care of." My final customer looks up at me again, not quite meeting my eyes but appraising everything below. Like I'm a rug that has had grape juice spilled on it once too many times for comfort. Like I'm a broken watch sitting next to the sink, ticking away in slow motion.
Eager to escape I go to the back room, writing down final inventory for the night. Even when I'm away from him I can still see him when I close my eyes; the boy is projected across my lids like a black and white movie. "What should I do?" His voice follows me, insistent and dry.
" I can't tell you that." I answer verbally, while mentally I ask him to forget about this Elizabeth, this woman whose fiancée doesn't even call a nickname, and marry me. We'd be happy. I could watch him forever and he could… do whatever he does. It doesn't really matter to me. As long as he's there, as long as he takes me away from here and lets me see his world for even a fraction of gossamer instant, I will be happy.
"Why not?" He motions for me to give him another drink, and I grab a fresh glass from below the bar.
"Because I don't know you. That's a big decision you have to make for yourself, buddy." He's too good for his Elizabeth. "Why do you love her?"
"She's beautiful. And rich." There isn't any shame in his tone, and I can see in his face that this is what he thinks love is. Something to make himself better, something to wear like an expensive suit of armor against the reality of his world.
The glass goes back to its position with a heavy thud, unfilled. "We're closing." I say, suddenly seeing the wrinkles deeply etched into his forehead, suddenly seeing the black shadows lapping like waves across his velvety chocolate eyes.