“What’ll you have?” the bartender asks when I slip into a stool at the bar. He has a front tooth missing and a sheen of dirt beneath his nails.
“Shots of whiskey and keep them coming,” I say, pulling out my credit card and sliding it toward him. I glance around, my eyes finally adjusting to the darkness. Cheap window covers allow only a sliver of the daytime sun to peek in. It is a rare sunny day in San Francisco, the fog that normally blankets the city having burned off hours ago.
The bartender sets down a full glass in front of me and leaves the bottle. I take the shot down in one gulp, welcoming the bitter liquid as it burns my throat. I pour myself another, the knot in my stomach finally loosening. My hand tingles, the one David held as he kissed me. I scrub at it, trying to erase his mark on me.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before,” a man to my left says.
My first instinct is to do what I always do, tell the guy I’m not interested. That there’s no way in hell we’ll be sleeping together. But my reflexes are off, rubbed raw from my moment with David. “First time.”
“I’m Chris.” He takes the seat next to me. In the dim lighting, I guess him to be a construction worker. “I’ll have what she’s having,” he tells the bartender. “You are?”
“Nobody,” I answer, downing another.
“Nice to meet you, Nobody.” He swallows his shot. “Are you from around here?”
“No.” I close my eyes, hearing David’s words in my ear, his touch on me. It is the first time another man’s presence has crowded out my father’s. “How about you?”
“Live down the street. Just finished up a job.” He points to his hard hat on the stool next to him. So he’s in construction. “Little early to be drinking that much, isn’t it?” he asks, pointing to my bottle. “Something happen?”
“Are we going to share sad stories?” I ask, meeting his gaze.
“Don’t have to,” he answers, his gaze holding mine. “Just making conversation.”
“I’m not the best conversationalist,” I say, remembering the hours David and I spent talking to one another. Thoughts of him flood me and I hate myself for what I want, what I can never have. The tingling at the base of my spine begins again, crawling up my back like razors ready to draw blood. Nausea hits me as the alcohol saturates my empty stomach. I forgot to eat lunch again, I belatedly realize. I glance around, searching for something but I have no idea what.
“Are you OK?” Chris asks, interrupting my train of thought.
“Do you have porn?” I ask, the alcohol buzzing in my ears. I close my eyes, trying to recall the last few stories I read.
“Is that a trick question?”
“The kind where . . .” I trail off, unable to say the words out loud. I swallow, scared, so completely scared, but left with nowhere to hide. “Where they hurt women?”
“No.” He stares at me, and I see what I always saw in my father’s eyes—disgust. “I don’t.”
“That’s OK.” I stumble out of the bar and into my car. Curling up in the backseat like a child, I allow the tears to finally flow, the sobs wracking my body until all that is left is the vision of my father.
RANEE
With all that is happening in their lives, they are rarely able to come together as a family these days. To do so now makes Ranee want to celebrate; she cannot, as it is not a joyous occasion that gathers them. Trisha has organized the house into separate sections and assigned each of them tasks. She has planned for one full day of packing and will schedule her movers for later.
“The boxes are there,” Trisha says, pointing to a stack, “and the tape there.” She is dressed in sweats and a T-shirt, her hair pulled into a ponytail. To Ranee, she looks like a teenager trying to pass as an adult. “Let’s go, people,” she says, clapping her hands together.