Miriam strolls toward Cody who still hasn’t looked up from his notebook. She’s wondering if he’s writing about her or someone else. She’s feeling her heart beat fiercer as her steps become more and more bowed. She checks her cell phone again because she wants her ex to call her and beg for forgiveness. Miriam’s stroll toward Cody isn’t really a stroll: it’s a slight stumble. An arm reaches out and grabs her wrist gently. Her vision is distorted, yet she thinks she recognizes this face before her. She’s never seen him before, but the alcohol in her veins says different. In a kind manner he asks if she’d like to sit and talk about things: why she appears so upset.
“Who . . . are you?” Miriam asks as she plops into the booth he’s seated in.
“My name’s Nevine.”
“Nevin?”
“No, Nevine. It’s Indonesian.”
“Oh.” Miriam really didn’t understand.
“Why are you upset?” he asks, swirling his glass of cognac.
“Don’t you . . . want . . . to know my name, Nevin?”
“It’s Nevine.”
“Oh?”
Nevine places a shot in front of her and tells her its gin. She grabs the glass and looks toward Geneva at the bar that’s helping another customer. She drinks a bit from her ice water, preparing her throat for another round, wiping her lips after a bit of water leaks down to her chin.
Slam.
Watery eyes.
Scorching throat.
Her eyes widen and her chest inflates when the gin reaches her esophagus. Miriam reaches for her ice water and carefully raises her body from the booth. Nevine again gently grabs her wrist and asks her to stay. Miriam’s eyes cannot focus on him. She pulls away and continues her odyssey toward Cody and his maddening journaling. She inches her way toward him, walking deeper into the alcoholic forest of Last Call, the bar her ex would frequent twice a week. The bar she finally realizes she came to today because she wants her ex to walk in and see her polluted with hate and hurt. She wants her ex to feel sorry for her and take her home and apologize for wronging her.
She reaches Cody’s booth, places her drink on the table, and plants her hands on the edge of the table, keeping her head up and eyes open as much as she can. Cody stops his writing and gives her a look of confusion.
Miriam opens her mouth as if to speak to Cody when her arms give way and she spills to the floor. Her purse vomits out various articles. Her cell phone skims two feet away along the wooden floor. Miriam’s ice water spills under the booth. Cody picks her up and crushes a few thin ice cubes underfoot as he heaves her into his booth. Geneva hasn’t seen anything. The Indonesian, the leech that grabbed her wrist and offered her a shot of gin, simply stares and smiles at her foolishness. Cody wipes her wet arms and legs and grabs everything she’s spilled on the floor: placing the articles back into her purse—cell phone, crumpled dollar bills, makeup. She cranks open her eyes and feels her shame growing. Her eyes leak. Cody hasn’t said anything to her. Cody hasn’t even asked Miriam for her name.
“Who . . . you . . . writin’ about?”
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