A month after Kit’s swift departure back to Florida, a package arrives for me at the cannery with his return address scratched in the upper left corner. I weigh it in my hands, and let my fingers explore through the envelope. Pages. Pages, and pages, and pages. I don’t open it, because I know what it is. The words that he wanted to say. That we didn’t have time to say. I have those words too. I’m not ready. For weeks, I carry it in my purse just to feel the weight of it on my shoulder. Unopened. A little bit ignored. I’m afraid to touch those pages. They could tell a very different story than the one I’m expecting, but Kit’s approach and appearance in PT makes me believe.
One day, shortly after Christmas, I walk to a bar on Water Street—called Sirens. There is still tinsel draped across the back of the bar. One side of it has come loose of the tape and loops down lower than the rest. It depresses me. I slide onto a barstool and order whiskey straight up, turning my back on the droopy tinsel. The bartender slides the glass over without meeting my eyes. Seasonal depression. Yeah, me too, buddy. I take a sip and flinch. Drinking is a good plan. You want to ignore your inner pain and pour fermented corn down your throat so you can ignore your pain some more. It’ll burn harder than your heart.
“Bad day?” A man’s voice—chalky, rich. He’s sitting directly across from me on the other side of the bar. He’s in the darkest corner, which makes it hard for him to be seen. I wonder if he planned it that way.
“Did the whiskey give it away?” My voice is raspy. I lick my lips and look away. The last thing I feel like doing is bullshitting with a stranger in a bar.
“Plenty of women drink whiskey straight up. You just look like you took a sip of battery acid.”
I laugh.
I turn to him, despite myself. “Yeah. It was a really bad day. But, they’re mostly like that.” I spin my glass on the counter and narrow my eyes on the shadows, trying to see his face. His voice is young, but his presence is old. Maybe he’s a ghost. I make the sign of the cross under the table. I’m not even Catholic.
“A man,” he says. “And a broken heart.”
“That’s fairly obvious,” I say. “What else causes a woman to walk into a bar at three o’ clock on a weekday and drink battery acid?”
Now it’s his turn to laugh. Young—definitely young.
“Tell me,” he says. And that’s all he says. I like that. It’s like he just expects you to spill all of your secrets, and I’m sure many do.
“Tell me,” I say. “Why you’re drinking alone in the darkest corner of the bar, trying to pry the hurt out of strangers.”
For a minute he’s quiet, and I think I’ve imagined the whole conversation. I take another sip of whiskey, determined to keep my face still as I watch the place where he sits. A ghost!
“Because that’s what I do,” he finally says.
I’m surprised he answered, though it’s a cheap, noncommittal answer.
“What’s the point of making conversation if you’re going to be guarded and give me rehearsed answers?”
I can feel his smile. Is that even possible? It’s like the air carries everything he does and lets you know.
“Okay,” he says slowly. I hear him set down his glass. “I’m a predator. I wait for women to tell me what they want, and then I convince them that I can give it to them.”
I laugh. “I already know you’re a man. Tell me something new.”
He shifts on his stool and light hits his face. For a moment I see a beard and a very sharp blue eye.” My heart races.
“What’s your name?” he asks. I blink at the terseness in his voice.
“Helena,” I say. “And you’re right. I do have a broken heart. And I don’t drink whiskey. What’s your name?”
“Muslim,” he says. He waits like he expects something from me. When I don’t respond, he says, “Tell me about this man you love, Helena.”
The man I love? I suck in my cheeks and stare at the place where he’s sitting like I can see him.
“Tell me about all the women you didn’t, Muslim.”
He slides his glass back and forth across the bar top, considering me.
“It’s your power move,” I tell him. “Getting women to tell you their truths while you hide all of yours. Is that right?”
“Perhaps.” I hear the catch in his voice.
“What causes you to want that power?”
He laughs. It’s a deep, throaty laugh.
“The lack or distortion of something usually causes a deep need for it,” he answers. “Wouldn’t you think?”
“Unless you’re a sociopath. Then you just crave things because you were born with the need. Are you a sociopath, Muslim?”
“My truth for yours,” he says. His voice slays me. It makes me feel lightheaded with all of that richness. A grating finery. I want to kiss him based on his voice alone.
“All right,” I say slowly. I turn my body toward him because I’m really getting into this. “He’s my former best friend’s fiancé. They have a baby.” I tell him the story of Della’s time in the hospital, and of my time with Kit and Annie. When I’m finished, there’s a flash of light as he lifts his glass to his mouth and takes a sip.
“Yes, I am,” he says. It takes a minute for me to realize he’s answering my question and is not commenting on what I told him. “I find out what makes people tick, and then I use it against them.”
“And when you say people, you mean women?”
“Yes,” he says.
I am a little stunned.
“Don’t you … don’t you feel bad about that?”
“I am a sociopath, remember?”
“But you’re not supposed to admit that,” I say quietly.
And then he says, “Does he feel the same way about you that you feel about him?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “He feels something.”
“So why aren’t you doing anything about it?”
I am taken by surprise, though I probably shouldn’t be, considering he just admitted to being a sociopath.
“What is there to do? He’s with someone else. They have a baby.”
“You have something of his,” he says. At first I shake my head; I have nothing of Kit’s. I wish I did. Then I feel the ache in my shoulder. There is a manuscript in my purse, the envelope wrinkled and soft. How does he know? I get chills.
One day, shortly after Christmas, I walk to a bar on Water Street—called Sirens. There is still tinsel draped across the back of the bar. One side of it has come loose of the tape and loops down lower than the rest. It depresses me. I slide onto a barstool and order whiskey straight up, turning my back on the droopy tinsel. The bartender slides the glass over without meeting my eyes. Seasonal depression. Yeah, me too, buddy. I take a sip and flinch. Drinking is a good plan. You want to ignore your inner pain and pour fermented corn down your throat so you can ignore your pain some more. It’ll burn harder than your heart.
“Bad day?” A man’s voice—chalky, rich. He’s sitting directly across from me on the other side of the bar. He’s in the darkest corner, which makes it hard for him to be seen. I wonder if he planned it that way.
“Did the whiskey give it away?” My voice is raspy. I lick my lips and look away. The last thing I feel like doing is bullshitting with a stranger in a bar.
“Plenty of women drink whiskey straight up. You just look like you took a sip of battery acid.”
I laugh.
I turn to him, despite myself. “Yeah. It was a really bad day. But, they’re mostly like that.” I spin my glass on the counter and narrow my eyes on the shadows, trying to see his face. His voice is young, but his presence is old. Maybe he’s a ghost. I make the sign of the cross under the table. I’m not even Catholic.
“A man,” he says. “And a broken heart.”
“That’s fairly obvious,” I say. “What else causes a woman to walk into a bar at three o’ clock on a weekday and drink battery acid?”
Now it’s his turn to laugh. Young—definitely young.
“Tell me,” he says. And that’s all he says. I like that. It’s like he just expects you to spill all of your secrets, and I’m sure many do.
“Tell me,” I say. “Why you’re drinking alone in the darkest corner of the bar, trying to pry the hurt out of strangers.”
For a minute he’s quiet, and I think I’ve imagined the whole conversation. I take another sip of whiskey, determined to keep my face still as I watch the place where he sits. A ghost!
“Because that’s what I do,” he finally says.
I’m surprised he answered, though it’s a cheap, noncommittal answer.
“What’s the point of making conversation if you’re going to be guarded and give me rehearsed answers?”
I can feel his smile. Is that even possible? It’s like the air carries everything he does and lets you know.
“Okay,” he says slowly. I hear him set down his glass. “I’m a predator. I wait for women to tell me what they want, and then I convince them that I can give it to them.”
I laugh. “I already know you’re a man. Tell me something new.”
He shifts on his stool and light hits his face. For a moment I see a beard and a very sharp blue eye.” My heart races.
“What’s your name?” he asks. I blink at the terseness in his voice.
“Helena,” I say. “And you’re right. I do have a broken heart. And I don’t drink whiskey. What’s your name?”
“Muslim,” he says. He waits like he expects something from me. When I don’t respond, he says, “Tell me about this man you love, Helena.”
The man I love? I suck in my cheeks and stare at the place where he’s sitting like I can see him.
“Tell me about all the women you didn’t, Muslim.”
He slides his glass back and forth across the bar top, considering me.
“It’s your power move,” I tell him. “Getting women to tell you their truths while you hide all of yours. Is that right?”
“Perhaps.” I hear the catch in his voice.
“What causes you to want that power?”
He laughs. It’s a deep, throaty laugh.
“The lack or distortion of something usually causes a deep need for it,” he answers. “Wouldn’t you think?”
“Unless you’re a sociopath. Then you just crave things because you were born with the need. Are you a sociopath, Muslim?”
“My truth for yours,” he says. His voice slays me. It makes me feel lightheaded with all of that richness. A grating finery. I want to kiss him based on his voice alone.
“All right,” I say slowly. I turn my body toward him because I’m really getting into this. “He’s my former best friend’s fiancé. They have a baby.” I tell him the story of Della’s time in the hospital, and of my time with Kit and Annie. When I’m finished, there’s a flash of light as he lifts his glass to his mouth and takes a sip.
“Yes, I am,” he says. It takes a minute for me to realize he’s answering my question and is not commenting on what I told him. “I find out what makes people tick, and then I use it against them.”
“And when you say people, you mean women?”
“Yes,” he says.
I am a little stunned.
“Don’t you … don’t you feel bad about that?”
“I am a sociopath, remember?”
“But you’re not supposed to admit that,” I say quietly.
And then he says, “Does he feel the same way about you that you feel about him?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “He feels something.”
“So why aren’t you doing anything about it?”
I am taken by surprise, though I probably shouldn’t be, considering he just admitted to being a sociopath.
“What is there to do? He’s with someone else. They have a baby.”
“You have something of his,” he says. At first I shake my head; I have nothing of Kit’s. I wish I did. Then I feel the ache in my shoulder. There is a manuscript in my purse, the envelope wrinkled and soft. How does he know? I get chills.
