two days late, two dollars short
I never should have given her my name.
I placed the nearly empty pack of cigarettes on the bar, next to my beer and shot. You can't smoke in bars anymore. I turned it over a few times. Read the warning label. Put it back down. Had another beer and a shot.
The bar was a hole in the wall somewhere down on Second Avenue. Not much wider than an alley and sandwiched between two places much more popular. It was dark and smelled of Murphy's Oil.
By the third beer (fourth shot), the bartender pulled an old ashtray from under the bar. "It's ok, as long as you let me bum one." She was pretty in a tired sort of way. I passed the pack across to her.
"I don't have a light," I said. She produced a small box of matches with the name of the bar imprinted on the side. Can't smoke inside, but they've still got the matches.
I exhaled smoke over my left shoulder. Took my shot and ordered another. I smoked the cigarette halfway and then worried it into the ashtray. Slowly and meticulously, so it balanced on its end when I was done. She watched impassively from across the bar. "You got O.C.D. or something?" she asked, not unkindly.
"Something," I said.
There had been an ashtray on the nightstand, with a half-smoked cigarette balanced on its end in the middle. Lipstick on the filter.
She was standing behind me and to my left in the bathroom mirror at the bar. The first time she appeared I had been afraid. But that was two days ago. Now I was just tired.
"I'm cold," she said.
"You're dead," I told her.
"You killed me," she replied.
"I think we've already established that," I returned with more heat than I had expected. She looked hurt. She had pretty eyes. "Besides," I softened, "it was an accident."
"I know." It wasn't forgiveness.
"Why are you still here? Shouldn't you have 'moved on' or something by now?"
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know this would happen. It's just, you were the last thing I saw, and I said your name."
"Yeah." I stepped out of the men's room and walked back to the bar.
I left the empty cigarette pack on the bar with my cash an hour later. The half-smoked stub was still standing in the ashtray. The lipstick on the filter might have been in my imagination.
The newsstand down the block was still open. "Marlboro Lights," I said.
"You don't even smoke." Her breath was cold on my ear.
"It's not for me."
"Thanks." It sounded like she might have been smiling.
He held the pack over the counter. "Seven-fifty."
I rummaged through my pockets for a minute, but only came back with a crumpled five dollar bill. He took back the cigarettes with a "don't waste my time" glare.
"It's ok," she said. "We can get more tomorrow. I'll still be here."
I never should have given her my name.
I placed the nearly empty pack of cigarettes on the bar, next to my beer and shot. You can't smoke in bars anymore. I turned it over a few times. Read the warning label. Put it back down. Had another beer and a shot.
The bar was a hole in the wall somewhere down on Second Avenue. Not much wider than an alley and sandwiched between two places much more popular. It was dark and smelled of Murphy's Oil.
By the third beer (fourth shot), the bartender pulled an old ashtray from under the bar. "It's ok, as long as you let me bum one." She was pretty in a tired sort of way. I passed the pack across to her.
"I don't have a light," I said. She produced a small box of matches with the name of the bar imprinted on the side. Can't smoke inside, but they've still got the matches.
I exhaled smoke over my left shoulder. Took my shot and ordered another. I smoked the cigarette halfway and then worried it into the ashtray. Slowly and meticulously, so it balanced on its end when I was done. She watched impassively from across the bar. "You got O.C.D. or something?" she asked, not unkindly.
"Something," I said.
There had been an ashtray on the nightstand, with a half-smoked cigarette balanced on its end in the middle. Lipstick on the filter.
She was standing behind me and to my left in the bathroom mirror at the bar. The first time she appeared I had been afraid. But that was two days ago. Now I was just tired.
"I'm cold," she said.
"You're dead," I told her.
"You killed me," she replied.
"I think we've already established that," I returned with more heat than I had expected. She looked hurt. She had pretty eyes. "Besides," I softened, "it was an accident."
"I know." It wasn't forgiveness.
"Why are you still here? Shouldn't you have 'moved on' or something by now?"
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know this would happen. It's just, you were the last thing I saw, and I said your name."
"Yeah." I stepped out of the men's room and walked back to the bar.
I left the empty cigarette pack on the bar with my cash an hour later. The half-smoked stub was still standing in the ashtray. The lipstick on the filter might have been in my imagination.
The newsstand down the block was still open. "Marlboro Lights," I said.
"You don't even smoke." Her breath was cold on my ear.
"It's not for me."
"Thanks." It sounded like she might have been smiling.
He held the pack over the counter. "Seven-fifty."
I rummaged through my pockets for a minute, but only came back with a crumpled five dollar bill. He took back the cigarettes with a "don't waste my time" glare.
"It's ok," she said. "We can get more tomorrow. I'll still be here."
I never should have given her my name.