"And A Bottle of Wine"

By Robert Docherty

        The bar sits on the side of a river. Technically the bar has a name, but the sign is small and non-obvious, the establishment relying on its exposed bar top and stools to advertise to its potential clientèle. Students on holiday, celebrants of various personal achievements, and plain old drunks crowd the stools. Night descends around all of them and as the shadows lengthen and then disappear, like any good booze parlor, the last patrons are still hours off from covering their tab and bidding the staff a good evening.

        Minutes roll by and the atmosphere takes the typical course of any bar. The heat of the August sun fades as it dips below the horizon, but pint after pint and shot after shot are dolled out all the same, the warmth of the alcohol covering any drop in temperature. As the night began the drinkers huddled into their respective pods, engaging with those they attended with and few others. But as the drinks flow, the volume rises and the air in the bar grows steadily looser. Peels of laughter rise into the night, hands linger on shoulders and on hips, and eyelids start to go lazy. Eventually the drinkers find themselves with high enough tabs or high enough blood alcohol contents that they begin to slacken their intake. Slowly they all drift home under the yellow glow of street lamps on cobblestones. Almost all of them.

        At the end of the bar sits a single man. His presence alone raises the average age of the bar’s patrons by at least a couple of years, and the time is clearly present on his face. He sits in front of a shot glass of whiskey with a pint of dark beer beside it. He sips from both seemingly at random.

        “Who’s the guy?” Marie, one of the bartenders, asks of her more senior colleague.

        “François,” Matthias replies, matching her hushed tone. “Been coming here a long time, only orders a handful of things. That’s the most common order though,” he says, nodding at the pint and the shot glass.

        “Even with all the people, the noise? Doesn’t seem like a solo-drinker’s scene.”

        Matthias shrugs. “You can ask him, but you’ll probably just get something cryptic about life not being prone to quiet or something.” He shrugs again and shakes his head, sighing.

        Marie is left with more questions but they hardly seem to matter now; Matthias’s implication being he’s an enigma that won’t lead to satisfaction.

        The night goes on and still more drinkers filter away. Foot traffic slows and Matthias and Marie find the opportunity to chip away at the mountain of used glasses. The task will take them well into the morning or need to be picked up the next day before opening to customers again. The pair stays, occupying the side of the bar opposite François. With the towels normally slung over their shoulders they rinse and dry each glass, replacing them under the bar as they go. Every few glasses Marie tosses a glance in François’ direction, curious when he’ll finally set aside his finished drinks and pay his tab.

        “He’ll leave soon,” Matthias assures her once he notices her glancing toward the opposite end of the bar. “He never keeps us ‘till close.” Marie nods and the pair return to their task.

        Soon enough Matthias is proved right. With a slowness particular to the elderly, François slips a hand in his pocket and returns with a set of lightly crumpled bills. He sets them on the counter, pushes his emptied glasses away from himself, and stands. With just a sigh and nothing else, he wanders out of the bar. His legs seem steady enough but his path is clearly that of someone with liquor in them. Each footfall seems to dictate a different trajectory even though he doesn’t stumble or ever risk his footing. Marie watches with a certain tension, afraid he’ll pitch to one side in a moment of carelessness and injure himself. But no such thing happens. He’s a practiced drunk, she at least has to give him that, and it’s not long before he’s wandered into the gloom and the meekness of the street lamps isn’t enough to follow his path.

        Marie and Matthias finish the last of their closing duties, the latter walking the former through the usual routine. Once finished the pair are finally free. They each go a different direction down the street and neither turns to look at the other. In fact, Marie hardly looks up from the toes of her shoes. Matthias seemed wholly uninterested in François, even if it’s not out of any rudeness. Perhaps it’s just to do with Matthias’ familiarity with him, she thinks. It’s the logical conclusion anyway, François being so regular that he’s practically wallpaper as far as Matthias is concerned. So long as his tab is covered why pay him any more mind?

        But Marie does pay him more mind. He’s an interesting character despite being characterless to her, his quiet solitude keeping her at bay. He’s a blank slate, a set of questions to her. Someone with such regular habits seems like they have to have something deeper, no? In her head Marie starts to ascribe a life to him. One of fast women and expensive cars, of gambling debts and high-priced scotch being drank on sail boats. As much as she wants François to be an aged swashbuckler finally settling down in port, she knows she’s being willfully naive. But somehow, to imagine such a life for someone else is to enrich her own.

        She eventually lifts her gaze to better determine her route, this part of the city still new to her, until her apartment building protrudes from the gloom. She climbs the darkened steps, her keyring jingling, and hears the heavy thunk of the bolt as it slides across and allows passage.

        It’s still sparsely decorated, her only investment  so far being the required down payment. She re-locks the bolt and slides the chain into its place before unshouldering her bag and letting it fall to the floor with a thud. A long, tired exhale escapes her lips and she crosses the kitchen to a bottle of wine as she kicks her shoes off. She hardly pays the bottle any attention as she uncorks it and nearly takes a pull right from the neck before stopping herself and taking down a glass from one of the cupboards, acutely aware that a “problem” is more a matter of appearances.

        On the side of the apartment that overlooks the street she opens a window and sits on the sill, the pleasant night breeze flowing in to counteract the muggy summer air that’s had the day to accumulate in her absence. She pairs the glass of wine and steadily emptying bottle with a cigarette and the newspaper, catching up on the day’s affairs as the wine flows and the tobacco burns.

        Once the bottle is a single swig from empty she simply tilts it into her mouth. She flicks the last of her third cigarette into the street and partially closes the window. Her thoughts linger on François as she sets the bottle gently amongst a series of others still more que stions, more possibilities occurring to her. The cool covers of her bed beckon and she strips, leaving her clothes on the kitchen floor to be dealt with in the morning.

        Sleep finds her soon once she’s nestled beneath the covers, her muscles relaxed after the drink and the smoke. But all the while, her mind sings of François. He interests her so, holding the unshakable sense that there’s a story — or perhaps many — that he could tell. But the siren song of slumber calls her and she drifts away for the night.

#

        Marie runs to get to the bar on time, but her efforts are for naught.

        “Jesus, what chased you here?” Matthias cracks as she crosses the threshold.

        Through wheezing gasps from her spent lungs, Marie says, “Alarm. Missed it. Didn’t want to be…late.”

        Matthias just smiles, entertained. “You know you could’ve called, right?” Marie declines to answer, instead focusing on getting her breath back. “Just give the place a ring next time, don’t have to tire yourself out.” Matthias gets her a glass of water and she sits at the bar, sipping at the ice cold liquid until her breathing returns to normal and she can feel the temperature recede on her brow. Her thighs still burning, she stands and gets behind the counter to assist

        In short order, the bar is declared open for the day and passerby begin to wander in. The promise of a cold beer on a day with the sun shining so violently is an unrivaled marketing tactic, and it soon becomes a game of how fast a pint glass can go out before more are needed. The weekend is nearing and students, backpackers, and other travelers have decided now is the time to rack up a bar tab. But eventually a familiar face slips through the throng and waits patiently in the wings until a seat at the bar opens.

        François displays the vigor left in him as he darts from a darkened corner and seats himself on a stool . Marie and Matthias see him at the same time, the former smiling at his predictable nature and the latter wordlessly taking down a pint glass and filling it for him.

        The evening slips into night and the drunken bar goers take the hint from mother nature. The whirlwind of filling and cleaning glasses shifts to that of handing out totals, taking back bills, and returning with change. There’s rarely a moment’s peace behind the bar for neither Marie nor Matthias but the generous, drunken tips of the beer-logged clientele do a small amount to make up for it.

        “Long one, I know,” Matthias says as the pair go about their nightly duties. François remains parked at the opposite end of the bar, but he maintains his typical solemnity, choosing to stare into various corners and think whatever private thoughts go on inside his head.

        “Yeah,” Marie replies. “Long one.” She’s focused on the glass in her hands, her towel rubbing it down. Her thoughts are elsewhere, the pressures of moving into a new city, new apartment, and adjusting to a new job suddenly seeming heavier than they did before her shift. The thought that follows isn’t any more fun, thinking about returning to her lonely flat with just the company of a bottle of wine. In a strange way she doesn’t mind the fact of it so much as she’s embarrassed by the optics of it. A fact that she chides herself over, her evening routine being a secret only she knows — even if thanks to a lack of anyone to tell rather than an intentional obfuscation.

        “Everything…okay?” Matthias asks gently.

        Marie exhales heavily and sets down the glass to make eye contact with Matthias, resigned to the fact she hasn’t been as stoic as she thought. “Not really,” she starts, matter-of-factly. “It’s been a long month filled with long days and I’d rather be home, sleeping. Preferably not alone.” She’s letting her frustration show now, and puts on a f rustrated grimace, there being little point in hiding it further. She shrugs as if to say, “but what can you do?” and picks up the glass again, deems it spotless, and sets it amongst the ‘clean’ group before grabbing another from the ‘dirty ’ pile.

        “You ever work in a bar before?”

        “In college, yeah. Back in my hometown during the summers for pocket money.”

        “Ah, I see. Never had to survive off of it.”

        She sighs again. “Yep. I actually liked the fast pace then. But I was a little younger, and I was also dipping into the tequila during every shift just like everyone else.” That conjures a small smile on her features. The taste of tequila would send her gagging now after a few too many nights bent at the waist, clutching the bowl of the toilet as if it were a life raft. But the memories  — the good ones — come back with ease.

        Matthias chuckles. “Know that feeling. Know it maybe a little too well actually.”

        “You strike me as a career barkeep,” Marie says, still smiling and leaning against the counter as if issuing a challenge.

        He hems and haws for a moment but as he extends the fingers of one hand to count out his past employers, Matthias has to admit that most of his jobs have been behind a bar. “I’m comfortable there I guess. My dad was in the military and we spent a lot of time stationed in Britain. I’d get taken to bars as a kid and they’d give me all the ginger ale or rootbeer I wanted. They’d use me as a handicap in pool sometimes, have me make shots for the winning guys to level the playing field since I could hardly see over the side of the table. I was young enough nobody was worried about ‘infecting the youth’ or whatever. Nobody’s worried about a seven year old stealing a shot of whiskey, you know?” His own features curl into an expression of pleasure, thinking back on those pleasant times. He shrugs. “Maybe that’s why. I dunno. Or maybe I just like the tips.” He snorts, l aughing.

        Matthias goes back to cleaning the shot glass held in his hand, but Marie is still stopped, staring. “I liked that story,” she says.

        “Really?” he replies, looking up, sheepish. “It’s not much of one, I barely remember it even. I’m probably inventing half of it,” he mumbles .

        “Well even if you are, all the best stories only start with reality.”

        “I like that saying.”

        The pair go quiet . The piles of dirty glasses dwindle just as the clean ones rise into the ceiling and a semblance of order is gotten back from the chaos of the evening. The heat of the day has broken to a comfortable chill and on a cue only he could hear, François stands and empties his pockets onto the bar top. With his usual controlled-unsteadiness, he wanders out in the night in the direction of home.

        An involuntary sigh escapes Marie’s lips as François disappears.

        Matthias chuckles, looking at her. “Really ready for the day to be over.” It’s an observation, not an inquiry.

        “Yes,” she replies . “Very. Ready to get home to my empty little flat.” She looks up and shoots an ironic, painted-on  smile at Matthias who openly laughs in wry understanding.

        “Wish I didn’t know that feeling so well,” he says. He asks whether she left anyone behind in her move to the city, but she says no, and if that was the case, she probably wouldn’t have moved away in the first place. “Ah, fair, hadn’t thought of that,” he replies.

        “Suppose I’ll meet a lot of people in a bustling place like this though, right?”

        Matthias inhales, picking his words. “You might be surprised. I’m also going home to an empty bed and a bottle of wine.”

        Marie takes a moment to think if she’d mentioned her own bottle of wine but she doesn’t think she has. A lucky guess  maybe? “You’re okay with that?”

        “I’m not not  okay with it,” he replies, shrugging. “Guess I haven’t had the alternative in a long time though. Someone to come home to, someone that’ll have the flat smelling like food when I open the door, that sappy sort of thing.” An endearing mix of earnestness and embarrassment collides on his face.

        “Do you spend a lot of time fantasizing about that?” she teases him.

        His mood turns more serious and Matthias says, “It would just depress me. I could go out on the town and try to make something happen, but…it’s different when it’s natural. When it’s a happy, cosmic coincidence.  Different when you’re really chasing it I guess, rather than letting it happen.”

        Marie nods, quiet. Matthias’ words are acting as something of a mirror. One w here she’s surprised to see her own self bounced back at her with such clarity and detail.

        “Sorry, I should let you get home. No sense in one of us depressing both of us, right?” Matthias says.

        “It’s been a long day. I could use a drinking partner if you feel up to coming over.” She lifts her gaze to meet his in a moment of confidence that she doesn’t feel entitled to. The words slipped from her mouth unbidden and she almost instantly starts to regret them. Less for the fact she voiced them than because of how Matthias might view such an open admission of loneliness.

        He thinks for a moment, returning her gaze with no change in his expression. An unseen calculation processes behind his eyes and he says, “Sure, if you really want company after a workday.”

        “I do. Or at least I want real company, not the fake company you get from customers.” She nods at the now-empty seats to illustrate her point. The pair get their things together and start out onto the street, making idle chit chat as they go. There’s an inherent performative quality to spending time with coworkers beyond the bounds of the work itself, and that would normally require an extra mental toll. A toll that isn’t pleasant after needing to engage in a similar one while interfacing with steadily-drunker clients throughout the evening.

        But Marie feels  none of that toll — or at least very little of it. Matthias produces a flask not long into their walk, a sweet apple brandy contained within, which he offers to Marie. They pass it back and forth and steadily their discourse changes.

        Their first exchanged words off the clock are somewhat stilted and awkward, both trying to ask revealing questions without bringing up baggage nor delving into hostile territory. It’s the light probing of a blind date, though neither of them realizes it as such. But as they walk their talking turns to other topics. Stock questions about home towns and high schools turn to teasing indictments over bad first kisses and worse first dates. Failed exams that got hidden from parents, crunched fenders hastily repaired in a friend’s garage. Neither Matthias nor Marie are doing so consciously, thoughts blurred by the brandy, but each new topic lowers the walls ever so slightly.

        Blocks pass and they find themselves on the front stoop. The brandy has hit quickly and Marie laughs at herself as she has to make multiple attempts at getting her key in the lock.

        “Empty stomach or lightweight?” Matthias cracks good-naturedly, declining to point out the vague wobble in his own step.

        Marie scoffs, a moment of indiscretion taking her. “Certainly not the second one,” she says, images of piled up bottles from days and weeks past crowding in on her mind.

        The lock finally accepts her key and the pair ascend the steps up to her flat where she has better luck with own door. She sets down her bag and immediately starts in on the apologies. “Sorry, I wasn’t really expecting company, obviously. I suppose I should’ve warned you about that, so my apologies.” As she talks, she hurriedly tosses aside yesterdays outfit, the day before’s breakfast dishes, and the upcoming day’s laundry. “I’m not a clean freak — obviously — but if I’m having someone over I at least want to look…professional.” She mentally questions her use of that word, but the thought is soon dismissed.

        “Well it’s a nice little place,” Matthias says from across the room, pushing aside a curtain with one finger to stare out the window and down onto the street. “It’s cozy without being claustrophobic.”

        “It is,” Marie replies with some amount of pride, happy to have her choice validated. A little smile creeps onto her face as she stands from her hurried tidying  up and surveys the room, now emboldened by Matthias’ compliment. “I’d give you a tour, but I’m afraid there isn’t much to see,” she says as she crosses to the kitchen and takes down a bottle of wine and two glasses, waggling them in Matthias’ direction as a silent question.

        “Please, thank you,” he says in response to the unsaid matter of wine, and then, “Is it really just the one room?”

        The cork pops. “No, but pretty much. The bathroom is through that door, and the bedroom is down that short hallway and then on the left. It’s a funny little layout, there’s no way it’s the most efficient use of the space in the building.” She pours as she talks and she rounds out the second, hefty glass as she finishes. She punctuates her sentence by offering the glass to Matthias who takes it with another round of thanks.

        “Probably good you’re alone then,” he says, taking a sip.

        “Good and bad. It would be cramped, no denying that.”

        “The occasional visitor is nice though.”

        “Only way to stay sane, some would say.”

        “And I would agree.”

        “You don’t seem like the company-keeping type,” she says.

        “Not so much. Doesn’t mean I don’t recognize the importance of people though.”

        “Are you the kind to have a handful of good friends, or select great friends.”

        “The second one. I’m not picky, but a close friend is like a tree. Takes lots of work before you start to see anything from it.”

        “I wish that weren’t the case. But then I suppose a close friend would lose any kind of importance.”

        Both Matthias and Marie are still standing at the kitchen counter. Her status as newly-moved in means there’s no couches or armchairs. Her dining room table would suffice, but something feels overly formal about that. She thinks back to her dinner the previous night of wine and cigarettes, but she can’t very well have both of them sit on the window sill. A final place presents itself and initially she shies away from it, there being an implication attached. Perhaps it's  her dwindling glass of wine and the brandy or perhaps it’s something deeper, more desiring of relaxed company, but she eventually blurts out, “Honestly, the most comfortable place is my bedroom.” She adopts an almost apologetic expression, as if trying to make amends for her lack of comfortable furniture.

        “Fine by me,” Matthias replies, betraying nothing.

        He follows her back and she reveals her equally sparsely decorated bedroom. A side table and a lamp accompany the bed, but otherwise it’s bare. Marie thanks her past self for having the decency to make the bed despite being late to work, and then she invites Matthias to sit down and relax. He sits himself gently on the far side of the bed and Marie sits across from him, drawing her legs up underneath her and making a joke about spilling her wine. “It’s not like this bedspread is worth anything anyway.”

        “Still, I’ll do my best not to ruin it,” Matthias says.

        Marie takes note of her wine glass being low — even though Matthias isn’t far behind her — so she turns and sets it on the side table with care, intending to take the rest of it slowly. “If you do need to set it down, feel free to-“

        But she never gets the chance to finish her sentence.

        As she turns back around, Matthias slides across the sheets with his wine glass held steady.  She’s caught off guard but begins to understand when he uses one hand to firmly grip her shoulder while the other reaches past to set down his own glass. Leaning over her, he draws back with the glass out of his hand and nestles his face into the  curve of her neck. She feels the soft caress of his lips and she relaxes, realizing his intention. She draws a hand up around his neck and holds him to her, reveling in the heat of his breath across the back of her neck as he dots her with kisses.

        She falls back, straightening down the length of the bed as she does so and now Matthias is atop her. He kicks a leg over and straddles her stomach, his lips moving to meet hers as she holds the sides of his face with both hands.

        Their kiss lasts a long moment, each gripping the other like desert nomads stumbling on a needed oasis. Marie only breaks their embrace long enough to ask if Matthias is sure. He replies that he is and chuckles when Marie insists he confirm that he’s, “really, really sure.”

        “I am, so shut up and kiss me again.” A boyish grin spreads on his features and with a smile, Marie’s hands instead work down his midsection and begin to fumble with the buckle of his belt.

#

        A night’s heavy sleep sits leaden on Marie’s eyes. She tries her best to blink it away, but the fog has decided to stay. She sits up and runs her fingers through her matted hair. Around the edges of her bed, her clothes are strewn across the room; even less organized than the usual pile she drops them into. Her wine glass from the night before beckons, and she sips at it experimentally. Less vile than she expected, though certainly with a hint of vinegar like all wines on the verge of expiry. There being no sense in wasting it as long as it’s palatable, Marie rises, her limbs in protest, and pads quietly to the bathroom with the glass in one hand. Her hair is tangled well beyond that of simple sleep and she can’t help but pat her stomach as she looks in the mirror, displeased with its prominence. The gesture is an entirely symbolic one, as if she doesn’t believe what the mirror shows her and her hands must find out for themselves if her belly is really that round, or if she’ll touch it and discover the flat tummy of her sixteen year old self. But of course not. Like all mornings she has to put such thoughts out of her head and make the same vague plans to run more, drink less, and shed her worries. All lies, and she knows it.

        She cranks the water to a scalding temperature and steps under its disappointing pressure. The soap and shampoo running down her body lend her a smoothness that’s pleasant to run her hands along, feeling the curve of her hips and breasts as she closes her eyes and allows herself a smile in the soothing heat. But soon the temperature fades and she’s forced to step out, dripping and covered in goosebumps.

        As she stands in front of the mirror, twisting her hair with a towel and watching the rest of her chilled form drip on the linoleum, she realizes that she’s been the first to use the shower. It wasn’t already wet, and the one available towel was unused. Matthias didn’t shower, and now she questions whether to apologize for not letting him know he could. In fact, she now has the worry of what to do on the matter of going to work. They both agreed in the moment after all, both having been in at least similar positions of vulnerability. She takes a frank look at herself in the mirror and asks herself, as objectively as possible, if she’s happy with the night prior. She comes back with a yes after some moments of thought.
        “ C'est la vie ,” she says with a sigh to the empty room, her words filled with dejected neutrality. She wanders out to the kitchen, still pondering what to say when she gets to work. Her thoughts are interrupted by a scrap of paper left on the counter. A fast and sharp hand has written her a note reading,

I had a good time last night. If you’re ever up for a round two, let me know.

Brief. To the point. No X’s or O’s to misinterpret, nor any other markers of affection. She can let it die a silent death if she pleases. Given a boost of confidence for the workday ahead, she puts on clothes and begins the walk to start her shift.

#

        As Marie nears the bar the quieted nervousness in her belly rears its head again, Matthias’ note now distant and the fear rising. She swallows her nerves and steps across the threshold anyway, trying to act normal — an oxymoron in itself, “normal” being one’s state when not acting.

        Matthias stands at the bar leaned over a newspaper, a cup of coffee in his hand.  As Marie crosses the threshold he looks up. “Hey.”

        “Hi.” She sets her bag behind the counter and puts her hair up, getting ready for the day. There’s work to be done.

        “Hope you slept okay.”

        Marie nods and smiles. “Fine, yeah. Didn’t even hear you leave actually.”

        “I would’ve stayed, but in the middle of…all of it I forgot about my cat. She was fine, but wouldn’t be if I waited to feed her until after work.”

        Marie nods again in understanding and that’s where the conversation dies. Opening time draws ever nearer and the pair set about their tasks, nights and acts forgotten — if only temporarily.

The evening wears on and out of the corner of her eye Marie is always watching for François, waiting for him to take his seat so she can wordlessly fill his pint. She waits and waits, serving customer after customer, but nothing. She starts to make little bets with herself about which seat he’ll walk through the door and latch onto, weaving and winding around the tipsy clients to nab a seat at the bar where he can be away from the chaos.

        “You notice François never came in?” Marie asks Matthias as they’re closing up.

        “I didn’t at first, but the nearer we got to closing, yeah. Usually he’s the last to leave.”

        “I hope he’s okay.”

        Matthias shrugs. “Probably found himself a quieter watering hole somewhere. I always wondered why he comes here even when it can get a little rowdy. Like you said the other night, doesn’t seem like his scene.”

        Marie nods in agreement but a bad feeling stirs in her. A nebulous, undefined disquiet.

        Once out of the bar, the fresh air of an impending new day feels good filling her lungs. Her mood improves with every step she takes on her way home after a shift, and this evening is no exception. Despite her lifted spirits, she delves into her typical after-work habit. She uncorks a wine bottle and decides she doesn’t care about the optics of a glass. Af ter  putting together a sandwich she takes the wine and a pack of cigarettes to her window and dangles her legs over the edge. Somewhere nearby, a neighbor has their window cracked while playing the trumpet. Slow, somber notes remind Marie of the jazz records her grandfather would put on after dinner when she was young. Her mother would always insist that her grandfather not smoke around her, so sometimes he would open the windows, turn the stereo up, and they would sit outside so he could smoke and they could laugh and talk. The easy, smooth notes would drift into the summer air until it was time for Marie’s bedtime, which would invariably see her begging to stay up longer.

        Marie feels a strange mix of emotions as she sits there, her legs kissed by the light breeze. The memories are pleasant. Very much so in fact, but at the same time she doesn’t feel uplifted. There’s another emotion at play beneath her surface, a counterweight. A melancholy that underscores the light and brightness of those childhood nights. Those times were simpler. Marie thinks of herself as leading a simple, uncomplicated life but she’s also keenly aware that such an attempt can only go so far. Sure, she’s not inundated with lunch invitations and doesn’t have an appointment book with every slot occupied, but still she feels overwhelmed. She wants to chalk it up to the Three N’s, the New job, the New apartment, and the New city, but if she’s honest with herself she knows it’s a feeling that she can pinpoint much farther back.

        The cigarette is burned low and Marie flicks the filter into the street, the wine bottle nearly empty. With a deep sigh, she climbs back through the window but leaves it open, willing the fresh air to mix with the stagnant. Towards her bedroom she walks, shedding her clothes as she does. The blood pulses in her ears with a low rhythm as she falls across the bed, staring into the ceiling. Part of her wants another go around with Matthias. She stares into the ceiling and remembers how good it felt for him to hold her tight and for her to hold him. A strangely singular set of feelings. Marie wonders if the previous owners left behind a phone book. She contemplates whether she should stand and pick through the closets or under the sink, but she knows she shouldn’t. She’d drunkenly run down the list of names until it got well beyond the bounds of politeness to call, and then she’d have sobered up enough to need another drink and while she has still more bottles of wine, they’re meant to be a week’s worth.

        So Marie rolls over and shuts her eyes. She drifts away after a few short minutes, but her last thoughts aren’t of Matthias. No, as she slips from the world of reality to the world of dreams, she finds herself thinking about François and wishing she knew more about him, as well as wishing he’s alright. A sober Marie may have questioned such thoughts, but a head full of wine and she simply hopes for the best for him.

#

        Another day dawns and continues as so many before it. Her first week is nearing its end and Marie still is yet to figure out how to spend her days away from the bar. Matthias tells her about an art exhibit that recently came to town, something about the early works of Van Gogh and some of his influences as well.

        “Do you have any plans?” she asks, probing to figure out if he intended the museum as a date before reminding herself that he put the proverbial ball in her court in that regard.

        “Not this weekend obviously, I’m still tending bar while you’re free for a few days, but yeah. Some friends invited me out boating late next week and a day on the waves with some beers and the sun sounds nice.”

        Marie agrees and they lapse into silence, continuing their opening duties as they prepare for the night’s customers.

        As always, there’s things yet to do when the first of the night’ s drinkers filter in through the doors. The important tasks are behind Marie and Matthias though, and the bar is prepared for them.

        Guests filter in and the number of open chairs dwindle. The evening takes its typical course, eventually turning to organized chaos but the point at which it happens being entirely undetectable. Chairs, like glasses, go from empty to filled and back again, repeating over and over. Tonight suffers an extra indignity when someone newly minted of drinking age extends their limits too far and Matthias is left with the unenviable task of scrubbing all traces of vomit from the floor. Otherwise the night is as is expected, but somehow such an incident can color an entire evening.

        When closing time finally arrives and the last guests are all but pushed out, Marie and Matthias collapse against the bartop, staring into the ceiling.

        “Jesus,” he says. “I’m almost scared to check the till because if we made even close to what we make most nights, that won’t have felt worth it at all.”

        “Glad to know it’s not just me thinking that.” The pair are entirely deflated. There’s a strange commonality between wait staff at the end of an arduous shift and those with insomnia; a depressed lilt to the shoulders as if they’re leaden. Their steps carry less confidence and more than that, even their speech itself is different. The effort required in each movement of the lips, tongue, and throat is apparent with every word they come together to create.

        They can only steal a moment’s relaxation before work beckons and they have more to do before being released until another day. It’s when they both turn to start their final duties that Marie realizes that François has yet to appear. For a reason Marie can’t even begin to articulate, that  sense of unease washes over her again. Like a Swiss watch with a single misaligned gear, the effect is slight but impossible to ignore once noticed. She pauses for a moment, staring at the end of the bar he typically chooses, and has to quiet the thoughts that swirl and eddy in her mind. Just as she saw François living a fantastical life before, she’s now met with images of accidents and tragedy. And like before, it’s based on…nothing.

        “Coming?” Matthias asks, his towel swiping across the bar.

        “Yeah, sorry. Just…realized I forgot something,” she lies.

        “What was it?”

        “Nothing really. Just forgot about groceries,” she says, compounding the lie.

        “Ah.”

        On the other side of Matthias, a broom rests against one wall. “Would you pass me that?” Marie asks, pointing at it and liking the idea of a simple, repetitive task to distract herself.

        Matthias turns and picks it up, offering it to her. As she reaches her hand out to take it, he pulls it back ever so slightly and asks, pointedly, “Are you busy tonight? If you, you know…felt like company again. We could always go back to my place if you still haven’t cleaned.” He smiles easily and warmly, an attempt to lighten the mood on the off-chance of rejection.

        Marie laughs lightly and says, “I actually would, but I’ve had a headache brewing and it’s only getting worse.”

        Matthias moves the broom back toward her and she takes it. “Worth a try,” he says, still smiling. “Maybe another night.”

        “Definitely another night.” She smiles and continues, “A night where my head isn’t pounding.” That prompts laughter from Matthias and the tone between them feels saved. Marie thinks to herself that it couldn’t have gone better, and then her thoughts turn to something her mother used to tell her when she was small. Something about honesty that feels especially poignant now that she’s invented two lies just to cover the first…

        Marie had hoped that the walk home would help clear her head of thoughts, but she’s proved wrong. If anything, each step energizes her wayward thinking, the tangle of emotions getting harder to parse and even harder to quiet as she goes. There’s a lot running through, but atop all of it is François, or rather the mystery that he was and the mystery of his sudden absence. And perhaps even above that, why she’s filled with a feeling of foreboding. There’s a desire to solve it, to find a resolution or closure or some such. She feels silly thinking so, the fact that she didn’t know this man at all impossible to escape from.

        Her route home has, with a detour of only a few minutes, a police station along it. She hadn’t even thought to go to anyone let alone the police, but as she nears the street she would need to take to visit the station, it occurs to her. All in a flash, she remembers the local police station but  dismisses the idea as absurd, they surely wo n’t have any information for her, the odds of François running afoul of any law has to be so remote as to not be worth considering.  But as absurd as it might be, her shoes turn her left as if sentient and once her course is changed, she doesn’t question it.

        The street with the station on it is a single corner away when it occurs to her that this station may not even have a 24-hour desk. Marie realizes she’s never been to a police station except to bail out a friend guilty of drunken trespassing, and she’s not even sure if 24-hour desks are a thing outside of pulp detective novels and cheap T.V. shows on late at night.

        Her fears are assuaged as she rounds the corner and sees the sign is lit and light spills from under a doorway. Marie’s footsteps quicken now, and it’s a mere moment before she’s turning the handle and stepping inside.

        The lighting inside is harsh and the bulbs buzz overhead. A reception desk dominates the room, a bored policewoman in her late thirties sitting with lidded eyes and her cheek rest ing  on her fist sitting behind it. At the sound of Marie’s entrance, the woman slowly swings her gaze toward the newcomer. Once she registers Marie, she sits up and asks, “Anything I can do for you?”

        It’s in that moment that Marie realizes how truly absurd her reason for being here is, and even worse, she’s made no plans as to what to say. The fact this desk is even open at this hour is so thoroughly a surprise that what to say once she’s at it totally escapes her. Her mouth opens soundlessly and she makes the snap decision that, perhaps thanks to her earlier memory of her mother, honesty is what’s called for. “This is going to sound insane,” she starts, before giving a much-truncated version of her story about the regular patron and his now repeated absence. She leaves out many of the details thinking she’ll sound less crazy, but the gist is obvious.

        The police officer takes it all in and thinks for a moment. “I’ll be honest honey, I’m not sure I can do anything  for you. You seem like a sweet gal and I wish I could help, but…there’s just not enough for me to go on.” Her apology is genuine but it does little for Marie. There’s now a sense of injustice brewing in her, jockeying for space with the unexplainable anxiety around François’ disappearing. She’s already gotten lucky for this place to be open to her, to have to give up here under these fluorescent lights and the unmopped floor would be to fail at the 11th hour. A conclusion that feels simply unacceptable. “I know I’m asking a lot, but is there anything you can do? Any records or databases you can go through? Any way to match a description or anything, or maybe there’s just another department you can point me to?”

        The officer’s face changes as Marie grows more insistent. “Ma’am I wish I could help, I wouldn’t do this work if I didn’t, but there’s just not much you’ve been able to tell me even. I really do want to help, I’m just telling you I don’t see how I can.”

        “Look, I don’t even know François that well, not even his last name, but-“

        “François?”

        “Yes.”

        The officer tilts her head, thinking. “I should’ve asked for a name earlier, but the way you were talking I didn’t think you knew it.” She stands and gestures for Marie to wait, saying, “One minute, I’ll be right back.”

        Marie remains in her place as the woman disappears through a door at the opposite end of the room. Perhaps it was really a minute, but it feels like longer to Marie, this moment feeling like the moment of payoff for a reason she can’t explain. She quips to herself in her head that unexplained feelings are starting to be the norm for her, but she’s interrupted by the return of the policewoman.

        She steps through the doorway, a piece of paper in her hands. She’s reading it as she walks toward the desk, and when she gets there, she passes it across. “I’m not really supposed to show you this without proof that you’re…related,” she says stumbling over a phrase to replace it with “related” rather than something else, “but you clearly care, so…here.”

        “Certificate of Proof of Death” is written in neat script along the top of the page. The first thing Marie felt on noticing François’ absence was a sense of foreboding, of dread. This moment shouldn’t come as a surprise. Perhaps just because of her detour to the police station, because of her musings about what fanciful past  life he might have lead, this moment feels hollow. The puzzle is unfulfilling, punctuated by a needless loss of what she can only guess was a good person. There’s a sadness welling in her breast, but not the sort that brings about tears. A deeper, blacker sadness larger than either herself or anyone else. A reminder that cosmic justice laughs in the face of fairness and spits on the idea of happy endings.

        “I’m sorry,” the officer says. “I don’t know what you had expected, but…I’m sorry.” She doesn’t really know what to say. Who would? “You should be proud of yourself though.”

        Marie looks up, questioning.

        The policewoman shrugs. “I know it doesn’t seem like much and it probably won’t make you feel any better, but look at the date. It’s from today.” Marie scans the paper again and realizes she didn’t even notice the date. “Like I said, I’m sure it doesn’t make anything better, but they found him today and think it happened yesterday afternoon. And that it was quick,” she adds gently. “You were quick to it. You noticed he was missing, and that’s good.”

        Marie sets the paper back on the desk and slides it forward. “Thank you,” she says in a hollow voice, turning toward the exit. Suddenly her walk home seems lonelier and her apartment emptier. The hours at her job longer and her solitude larger. There’s a fear in her. Not the fear of a lion bearing down or of standing on a diving board, preparing to jump. No, a fear so disconnected from the physical world that steps to solve it don’t even begin to occur to her.

        Except for one.

        Marie turns back to the desk as she gets to the door. The policewoman cocks her head, waiting to hear why she’s stopped. Marie takes a breath and asks, “Do you have a phone book? I need to call a friend and ask if their offer is still open.”

* * *