The Night is Almost Done

The kitchen door of Opus swung open, spilling a burst clinking plates and the chef’s shouted orders into the dining area. The bustling restaurant was near capacity and no one seemed to notice the intrusion.

The crowd was nicely polished for New Year’s Eve. Long black dresses on the women. Maria included. Men in crisp buttoned-down shirts tucked into tight pants. Weathered jeans and a black t-shirt was the best I had to give.

“Louis... I don’t care where we end up or what we are doing... I just want to be with you. I... I don’t need anyone else.”

Her voice trembled as it rose. The sight of her fading optimism stings my already bloodshot eyes.

It is that same old story and it is aging like a face plush with makeup against the heat and grime of a crowded bar when the night goes on too long.

I take a sip of my whiskey. The bitter taste hits right. Grounding. A quiet attempt at drowning out the echoes of yesterday… again… and again… and again…

“It isn’t that simple.” I reply flatly. “You only like me because I can get you high, but I will take you low. Heads I win, tails you lose.”

“Are you two ready to put in some food?” The unsuspecting waitress asks.

All warmth and practiced ease—a smile honed by years on the floor.

Maria looks at me. I look at her, then the waitress. A thousand anonymous faces, a million bodies wouldn’t be enough. Nothing could ever be enough to fill the void.

The thought strikes me; it isn’t about a new girl. Or girls. No one in particular. Rather an overwhelming urge to reclaim an identity that brought strength where there was none. That put confidence in the place of doubt.

A pretty blonde walks through my mind, then another. Then a brunette, then another. Ad infinitum. Surrounded by happy faces and held hands, time rages past me. Meanwhile, she stands by me. Watching, waiting—unknowingly. Both of us, caught between.

“How is the pita? Maybe that and the croquettes?”

“Both are very popular orders,” the waitress replies.

“Does that work for you?” I asked Maria.

She smiles honestly and nods.

The writing is on the wall. Relic or premonition? Lesson or warning? She can have it all. We can have it all.

“Louis…” She says, softly.

I can’t help but notice that my name sounds hollow coming out of her mouth. There is a knot tightening in my gut.

“Oh… Baby… I’m sorry… I’m sorry you are stuck here waiting, watching—while I dance with ghosts.”

“It could be so easy! So good!” She fought back. “Let them go.”

“You are sweet. But the truth is those ghosts know me better than you should ever care to”

Dum…dum…dum… Dum…dum…dum…

I retreat into my mind. Smoking jacket on. A smooth melody plays in the background. The world is stripped of its context. There is a cigarette in reach. And a beer. Then another and another.

The world is in reach. That world with clean edges and stolen heat. The same old song—that brought me comfort when I had none—hums along. Users of all flavors commiserating. Sharing pain, warmth, and bodies.

Hold on to that feeling, til it runs out. Back to zero, til I fall again… and again…

To belong—feels so good. Feels… Felt. Because now—with her—I am alone. And she feels it. The lonesome blues are contagious.

Maria stared across the table, her fingers tight around her glass.

“It doesn’t matter who you were… Or who you claim to be. Look at me, Louis! I like who you are!”

“Who I am is a question that I don’t think you know the answer to.”

“Well...Who do you want to be?”

“That, my dear, is what you need to come to grips with—what you need to face.”

“I just don’t understand. We could have such a nice life.”

A voice echoes in my mind.

Enough questions—we want answers. Face it… face it… face it… FACE IT COWARD!

Who are you? Who do you want to be?

Choose the path forward! For the love of Christ—choose the path forward.

Or you will bleed sour streams of blood all over the white picket fence you are sitting on.