2003, Chicago, Illinois

By Jenna Henry

My stomach churns the booze in my belly like a sickly ocean. It rolls warmly against my insides. I look into the cracked mirror above the sink. My mascara is gathering raccoon-like beneath my eyes, my hair is losing its luster, and my lipstick has long faded from my dry lips.

My looks definitely have a shelf-life on evenings like this. Heavy drinking reveals the desperation under my skin and I blow my own cover. I’ve got to keep it under control. The girl waiting for me at the tiny table just outside this bathroom is easily scared. I allow her to know how badly I want her. I smear the black lines under my eyes with my index fingers, tousle my hair, and reapply my Shiseido red.

Recruiting a higher power feels necessary at this point. On the dirty bathroom floor of this crap bar, I get on my knees and I pray. Dear God, the Devil, whoever: Please make her mine tonight. Even just for one night. I shove my hands in my pockets and look for something to offer up. I pull out a book of matches and strike one. The fire carries down the flimsy cardboard slowly, heat creeping toward my fingers. Just before it touches my skin I toss it into the toilet. I strike all the matches in the book the same way, tossing each one into the dank water with a slight hiss. The smell is comforting. I’ve lost myself now though. How long have I been in here?

I stumble out of the bathroom back into the bar. Someone has put the Stones on the jukebox. Mick Jagger’s sex-laden voice carries through the room. Everyone’s feeling it. Some sing along quietly, others just mouth the words every so slightly. In my haze, I vaguely remember a documentary I watched at some point that showed the ear drum as it hears sound. I picture the ear drums of everyone in the bar vibrating and bouncing along with Mick’s voice. The warm redness of the tender flesh surrounding the drum, and the delicate drum itself nestled there like a tiny egg, processing the wiry guitar chords to Brown Sugar.

I look to where we were seated before I went to the bathroom and she’s still there. Her eyes meet mine and I smile, shake my head to myself. Gorgeous, her eyes are. They are almond-shaped and hazel. She never lets anyone stare into them for too long, though. She’s skittish as a bird, forever restless, can never keep still. I’m actually surprised that she’s still at the little broken down table. I expected her to be flitting around the bar, talking with strangers, ordering another vodka, pumping quarters into the jukebox. Anything but sitting calmly, sipping her drink, waiting for me to return.

I walk over and plop down into the chair across from her. My beer is nearly cashed. I turn the bottle up and empty the rest of it down my throat.

“You drink like a fish, you know,” she says.

I laugh and nod. “So I do, so I do.”

“You should take it easy. You don’t want to end up like these guys in here.” She directs her pretty eyes toward the bevy of old, toothless drunk men at the bar. Men who are in their 50s and 60s, men who no longer drink because they’re socializing or celebrating, but because they have to.

I grin and shake my head. “I won’t end up like them, don’t worry.”

She smiles. Rather than reaffirming that I won’t, in fact, end up like the old drunks, her smile actually contradicts. Because I know that as long as there are girls like her who have my heart and don’t really know what to do with it, I’ll need a bar like the one we’re sitting in. I’ll need to pour the booze down my throat in mourning.

The thought must have shown on my face because she looks at me inquisitively. “What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Nothing! Nothing! Everything’s fine,” I say, a little too enthusiastically, and it’s obvious now that I’m hiding something. She asks a few more times but I fend her off and get up to go grab another beer.

The bartender is a nice but trashy girl. She wears low jeans with a sparkly, spandex mid-shirt that shows off her stomach. Her hair is curly and crunchy with gel. Her makeup is loud. She’s tending to one of the old guys when I walk up, but as soon as she sees me she pulls another bottle from behind the bar and passes it to me. I leave her a tip and ignore one of the old guys trying to make time with me. “Hey, baby, I love you. You love me? I love beautiful women.” He has a heavy Polish accent and his breath is stale and hot against my face. I grimace and take my beer back to the table.

A heavy lull in conversation develops. I’m making a study on her, trying not to be too obvious about it. It amazes me that she can look beautiful, even in the awful fluorescent light coming from the Budweiser lamps that pepper the low ceiling. I’ve seen her in better light, in the warm glow of candles at nicer, classier places than this. Or at her apartment, when she’s concentrating on grading her papers by the small lamp in her living room. I love it most when she’s fixated on something; I can watch voyeuristically, let my overactive brain run rampant through the multiple scenarios I conjure.

It’s painful to let my hands wander the length of her body in my mind, to allow my mouth to rest where it wants. Because I have been with her, weeks earlier, face down on her comfortable futon, drunk and desperate. She lay beside me, drifting in and out. Leonard Cohen sang softly to us from her stereo. I pulled the blanket up over our heads and stared at her. She grinned. “Got you,” she said. “Red-handed,” I agreed. We stared at each other and the tension swirled between us like wind on fire, breathing hotly.

I tried to hold back but I couldn’t. “I want to kiss you,” I told her. She laughed quietly. Nervously. My heart began to pound in my chest. My palms clammed up, my mouth went dry. What the hell did I do that for? I kept saying it over and over in my head. I closed my eyes to her silence and concentrated on Leonard until finally she spoke.

“I could kiss you, but I couldn’t do anything else. I’m sorry.”

I shook my head. “It’s OK. You’re straight. I should have known better,” I whispered. Never in my life had I wanted a straight girl. She hadn’t even been friends with a queer before me. And now here I was, and it had to turn into the awful stereotype. I scolded my heart like a misbehaving child. Stop this foolishness. This is ridiculous, I warned.

And so now here I am at this dive with her, trying not to think about her body beneath mine in bed, her fingers in my mouth. It’ll never happen, I know. I kill half of the beer and set it down hard on the table.

“What is wrong? You’re upset. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“Nothing. I should go home. You gonna stick around?”

“Why do you want to leave so early? It’s not even midnight yet.” Her hand shoots out across the table to grab my arm. I almost flinch. There’s a strange feeling that I definitely should not let her touch me for fear that I wouldn’t be able to control myself. I’ve made a fool of myself once and I’m not drunk enough this night to do it again.

“I’ve gotta go.” I tell her, and leave the bar.

Outside the air is fresh and cold. Fall has officially arrived and I wish I would have brought a heavier jacket. I walk quickly across the street and cabs honk obnoxiously at me, trying to get me to buy a ride. I nod them off and wave my hand, annoyed. I pass by the elementary school, and it seems strangely out of place at night when the drunks run the streets. The playground is empty but the wind blows the swings back and forth as if a couple of kids just hopped out of them.

“Wait! Wait, hang on a minute!”

I turn and see her running down the sidewalk after me. A heavy sigh escapes me and I stop. She’s out of breath, panting, and bends over slightly, resting her hands on her knees, trying to get it back.

“Why did you leave like that? Did I say something wrong? Please don’t do this. This is crazy.”

I stare at her as she stands up to look at me. I can’t hold my tongue. “I like you,” I blurt out. “And I know you like me, too. But I think you hold back and it’s hard for me to be around you because of it.”

There. I said it. There’s nothing to hide anymore. The weight I’d been holding for weeks lifts, but is instantly replaced by yet another one when I see her face fall. She looks at me, her eyes full of concern. I cringe; the last thing I want is pity.

“I know you might think that I’m lying to myself, but I’m not. I know that I’m straight. I love your company, though, and I would hate to lose your friendship over this.”

I feel stupid tears well up in my eyes and I fight them bitterly, the knot stinging my throat. “You didn’t do anything wrong, OK? It’s me, I’m sorry. I’ll just have to get over it.”

There’s an awkward silence for a while. The wind blows cold and hard, but with it comes the scent of her perfume. I remember looking in her medicine cabinet for mouthwash the morning after the futon, after Leonard Cohen, and seeing the bottle of the sweet perfume. I took it from the shelf and breathed it in deeply, knowing that I’d always associate it with her.

“So we can still hang out maybe?” she asks hopefully, moving closer.

“Yea, I just need some time, that’s all,” I say.

She nods solemnly and looks off for a minute or two, her eyes scanning everything and nothing. “Can I give you a hug?” she asks finally, stepping toward me with her arms out.

“No, no, don’t.” I take a step back, shaking my head. “I’ll see you soon, OK?” I tell her, and start walking again.

I don’t really know where I’m going. My apartment is the other way, but I’m not going to walk past her again. I tell myself things will be OK. Hopefully I’ll make it home before the little store across the street from my building closes, and I can buy a beer to take to bed with me. I fish around in my pocket to see how much money I’ve got left. Only four bucks, but it’s enough.

Behind me, quick footsteps grow closer and I move toward the fence of the playground to give them full reign of the sidewalk. I turn to meet them but my body is pushed against the fence and it’s her mouth on my mouth, her tongue violently rolling with mine, her hands pressing against the small of my back. I bring my hands up on either side of her face, my fingers tangling her black hair. I can feel my heart pounding so hard in my chest.

She pulls away and looks at me but I pull her back, press my mouth into her neck, let my breath come hot and hard against her throat.

Jenna Henry is 26 years old, living mostly in her head, dreaming of distant places, wishing for everything and anything.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Friday, March 30th, 2007 | Email This Post

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