Ten minutes pass. Deep breaths and yawns become apparent from Miriam’s disposition. Oxygen to the brain. And Miriam begins to mumble in her head. She acknowledges no one who approaches her table discreetly and asks her humble questions. Her eyes are dazed and her mind streaks, crushing thoughts from ear to ear.
Back to the bar.
“Another.”
“Miriam,” the bartender submits with a smile of worry, “why are you drinking so much? Do you want to talk?”
“Later.”
The third martini spirals down into her poisoned belly. Two minutes of heavy breathing and Miriam returns to the bar with slow steps—voices of men scattering scattered words behind her. She pays no mind to any of them or anything at all.
“Miriam. Are you driving? I think you need to slow down.”
“ . . . not driving.”
“Are you planning on staying in the bar long or are you leaving soon?”
Miriam says nothing.
“I’ll serve you another martini if you promise me this will be the last one and you won’t leave Last Call anytime soon. You need to sober up.”
“Yes.”
Miriam takes her time with this next round, knowing Geneva is watching her closely. She retreats to a different booth, the one next to the poster of Robert De Niro. Her vision narrows and her heart continues to pulsate hurt. She checks her pockets and purse for her cell phone, digging through loose change and crumpled single dollar bills. She finds it and checks to see if he’s called or not, perhaps leaving some long-winded explanation about how sorry he is and how he’s now in love with someone new. But there’s nothing there. She calls his cell phone and hears his voicemail come immediately on, a smooth voice requesting the caller to leave a message. And she does, telling him off with a soft voice that appears isn’t hurt by what has just happened.
“Excuse me,” a young man dressed in an expensive charcoal suit interrupts. “Why are you calling him? I am sorry for interrupting, you being in the middle of leaving a message and all. I normally wouldn’t do this, but this situation reminds me of me a week ago. Trust me, hang up the phone and never talk to him again.”
Miriam does just this, completely lost in the power of this stranger’s words. She takes a deep breath and rubs her fingers across her face, gently ironing out tension and stress.
“You think you . . . know my situation?”
“I was there.”
“What . . . are . . . you sayin’?”
“You’re broken.”
Miriam shifts in her booth and questions why she’s even talking to this well-dressed stranger. He says that no matter what the situation may be one should always be good to oneself. He submits that his name is Cody. He sashays away into a corner of the bar where he’ll sit alone and write things down into a journal that no one will ever read.
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