I watch her, but she has no idea that I’m even here. She’s standing over by the back corner of the bar with a bunch of her friends. They are all around her age, in their late twenties. The guys are wearing suits and look like total yuppie tools. And the ladies all dress in outfits at once inappropriate and professional, slacks that press tightly against their thighs and white shirts that fold open between the buttons at the chest. They’re all pretty, I guess. In a way. But I’m really not paying attention to any of them. Only her.
Her name is Lauren Branch. She lives at 3509 Clayton Street. It’s an old row home that has been subdivided into three units. I actually painted the house next door, or part of it. My buddy owns the painting company. I was just working for the day. But that doesn’t really matter, either.
She’s short, maybe five three, with black hair that is perfectly straight and glasses that may or may not be prescription. Her legs are crossed at the ankle under the table. I can only see one shoe, an absurdly high heel with leopard print. When she speaks, her hands alternate between tenting under her chin and caressing the wooden edge of the four-top. They all seem to be listening to her every word, like she’s the boss. They laugh and nod and frown with interest. And I find myself imagining what she might be saying.
When he’s governor, we’ll all have great jobs and everything will be perfect and I’ll get paid a lot.
My mind wanders. My thoughts distract me. For a time, I picture myself married to her. I imagine Lauren coming home from work to my disgusting trailer, finding me on the couch, or maybe working on some half-finished painting. I hadn’t painted in years, since high school, really. Until recently, so maybe that’s why the image slips into my daydream. Lauren would walk in completely put together in some expensive work outfit with high-heeled shoes and carrying a nice bag with a laptop. What would she do? Kiss me hello? A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. A couple of people standing nearby hear it. They look around, uncomfortable, so I slip to another wall and stare at the floor for a while.
It’s not really my fault. Maybe that’s why I find the thought so funny. I haven’t had the best set of examples when it comes to relationships. My mom and dad. My brother and his wife. It doesn’t really matter, though. Marriage isn’t in the cards for someone like me. My life diverged from that option decades ago, really.
I close my eyes, trying to picture other paths, ones that I might have followed if things had been different. My old art teacher, Mr. Steinmetz, said I was a pretty good painter. Maybe I would have been an artist. I could have lived in the woods, alone, and the world would have coursed through me, out of me, and onto the canvas. I could have shown the others how I saw things, how sometimes the beauty lay hidden behind what the eye could see. Maybe I could have been famous; immortalized in my art.
Stupid, I think. What a stupid fucking thought that is. Maybe I could have been a damn movie star or a ballerina or something. The frustration of it rises. My left hand lifts, crosses my body. I pull up my right sleeve and scratch at the tattoo on my forearm, a Celtic knot with an empty center. I used to dig my nails in until my skin would bleed. But seeing the blood on my arm, at that spot, was too real. Too close to the truth. Scratching it is my worst habit, though I do it anyway, and try to clear my head, to focus on what I have to do.
I can barely hear the Irish music from upstairs, some guy from Maryland who makes fun of the older people up there and sings songs like “Cockles and Mussels” and “Wild Rover.” A bunch of people are stomping on the floor to the beat. It’s soothing, though. I feel drawn up the steps. In fact, I’m closer in age to everyone upstairs than I am to the happy-hour crowd down here. But I can’t leave, not yet. I need to watch.
See, it’s finally going to happen. I’m going to do it. It would be easy to say that I’m being forced, that this is not my choice, my decision. That I can’t be held accountable for what I am going to do. But no matter how convenient it would be to have a scapegoat, or even share the blame with someone else, I know this is my choice. I want to do it. And I will, soon.
Lauren stands up. Laughing, she tilts her head back just a little and the bank of lights behind the bar reflects off the lenses of her glasses. Her chair leg rattles along the hardwood. She steps away from the table and I lower my head, tilting my shoulders to slip deeper into the shadows. I can’t let her see me.