Another beer
by Cheryl, posted on May 6th, 2011 in Red Writing Hood
This is a work of fiction for The Red Dress Club and is inspired by the prompt, “Jealousy.” It is the continuation of a story. If you want to read the backstory, you can read Part One, Part Two and Part Three.
My husband is dead.
And I want to kill him.
He has no idea what it’s been like since he left.
The pain. The loneliness. The spectacular grief.
He’s lucky.
No one tells him it’s time to move on.
No one judges, appraises, watches.
I wish I was dead, too.
But I can’t bring myself to pull the trigger or take the pills or whatever.
Because then Justin would kill me.
And these are the kinds of thoughts I have. What are those stupid stages of grief? I go through them all. Every day.
My therapist tells me this is normal. That feelings are good.
She’s been married for 23 years. She has three kids. She has lovely degrees framed on her wall and a soft, soothing voice. But what does she know? I mean, really know?
I walk out of her office, blinking in the late-afternoon sun. The sidewalk is busy this time of day. The bars are open for happy hour and I watch the guys loosening their ties with one hand and holding their cell phones with the other, the women with their blazers already under their arms as they disappear into the doorways.
That was Justin. That was me.
Hennessey’s.
It still smelled the same: sour beer and oak. I hadn’t been back since before Justin died and I wasn’t sure why I was there now. I didn’t consider whether there’d be anyone I knew and didn’t bother looking around, just made my way to the shiny wooden bar and grabbed a stool. I held my purse on my lap and studied the names on the taps.
“What can I get you?”
I looked up at the bartender. He had eyes the color of Windex and he wore his dark curly hair just a little long.
“Goose Island Night Stalker,” I said, flushing.
“Great choice,” he said. I watched as his hands held the frosted glass under the tap and filled it with the amber liquid.
I didn’t look up again when he handed it to me, just slid a $10 bill across the bar.
I was rattled. I was sure that part of me had died with Justin. I wanted it to die with him. And now some bartender with dimples and straight white teeth suddenly awakened something inside me. A group of women leaned on the bar, their flat-ironed hair falling like curtains around them as they competed for his attention. He flirted and laughed with them, flashing his perfect smile, and my stomach twisted. I clutched my glass tightly as I took a generous swallow.
It seemed a lifetime ago I was just like them, with nothing more pressing than where we were going to go next for dinner and when I’d be meeting up with my man. I couldn’t imagine breathing without the heavy weight of grief on me. It’s become as much a part of me as my slightly off-center nose and the small mole in the middle of my lower back. They were so lucky, these girls. So lucky, and today, it hurt in a way it hadn’t before. I was a million years older than them and at that moment, for the first time since Justin died, I wanted my youth back. I wanted ME back.
I swallowed the last of my beer.
“Would you like another?” The women had moved off, and I realized the bartender was talking to me.
This time, I met his eyes. Smiled.
“Yeah. I absolutely would.”
Tags: cute bartenders are a weakness, jealousy, red writing hood
