Witness Etiquette

“And I’ll have a Bloody Mary jug too, thanks.”

Demi gulps the spicy elixir, trying to lose thought altogether. Sucking on the celery swizzle stick, her stomach, still tickled with gurgling stirring emotion, is refusing her breakfast special. Moving onto the next bar on this inner-city funfair row, is just logical.

Why not? She justifies. Everyone around here parties all weekend!

Lounging inside a velveteen cushion fiasco of deluxe vintage styling, Demi orders a Long Island Iced Tea… followed by another jug, this time of Sangria. After hours of chatting to any other daytime drinkers in a series of bars, she’s feeling all back, absolved - or drowned guilt - is pushed aside.

It’s not easy to notice anyone strikingly good-looking when everyone seems so attractive and well dressed in the city. It’s the hour of fast glass slinging on a Friday afternoon in a crowded hotspot. Yet he seems slightly aglow, perhaps because he’s staring her way. She boldly pats an empty stool beside her, and like a good little puppy he’s straight there.

“So yeah, my street art safari fell to pieces, now it’s a bar crawl instead!” She’s screaming in his ear.

“What?! Let’s go somewhere quieter?”

“Nah, let’s drink!” she insists, submitting to his cocktail bar idea, eventually later in the evening.

A tinkling piano conjures visions of fairy’s dancing on keys and casting spells on lovers leaning into each other in lantern-lit booths. At some tables, still suited at ten at night businessmen sit with scotches, at others, occasional backgammon boards. The boy, who is named Bing, brings the champagne to their booth.

“It’s been about twelve hours since I started,” Demi slurs, “Do you think I’m a coward? I feel like some sort of hit n run driver.”

Bing is sweetly consoling. “Hey, baby – I’ve done far worse things before. Trust me, that is nothing!”

Maybe he’s trying to seduce me – or is he genuinely nice? Aloud, Demi just says, “Like what?! I can’t imagine.”

Bing staggers over his reply, “Like… I mean I – I - uh…”, then, backing out of a confession,” times in my life I could have said no…” he adds abstractly.

“I could have helped if I hadn’t just – ran!” Demi is still self-absorbed.

“Those people who film police brutality are next level bravery – that’s all. What if he died? Anyway? Could you stop that with a camera? You’d really just be filming a snuff movie!”

“That doesn’t help.” An inkling of repulsion in her appears.

But he reaches towards her, clasping her hands, his overpowering eyes pulling her in.

A saga of salubrious drinking and dancing then ensues, extending as far as sunrise suggesting it’s arrival through cracks between buildings. Once they are lost in a maze of deserted backstreets, he pushes her against a tastefully graffitied brick wall. She doesn’t resist. It’s quick alleyway sex, fully clothed - which suits her completely.

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Her nostrils and eyes are stinging. Dizziness. She can’t run anymore. He can’t keep up – where is he now?

“Cabin crew, prepare for landing!” The broadcast sharply pulls her out of the nightmare.

Why are these flashbacks returning? I should message that guy. As soon as I get home.

Bing has beaten her to it, her inbox pulsing with bright red hearts in his rows of emoji code. She falls back to sleep next to her phone.

Flames rise out of foliage like golden temples, demanding anything in their path bow down to them. Leaving black skeletons of trees; later the resilient ones will be also defeated, stolen. The fire pulls at her ankles, and all sound is swallowed by this hissing dragon who threatens the land and anyone on it. She wakes up - in a hospital then wakes up - in reality, on her couch.

Bing is calling, right on time.

Their long-distance relationship is strangely fulfilling. For Demi, finally recovering from losing her first love to the fire thirteen years before, less is more than enough. Demi relishes in expressing herself in their frequent chats, in an exaggeratedly posed restoration of her sensuality. Although just as with any other boyfriends since then - never really sharing her entire self.

She hasn’t told Bing about the tragedy yet. When it’s time, she would. In her blissful escapade, bringing up history would be an intrusive bore. They chat frequently, in tones of desire.

I know now, he’s going to love all of me.

Demi basks in hopeful morning ambience as she enters the airport again.

It’s like transcending to heaven as the plane lifts her up above the puffy clouds, through sleepy eyes she looks down, and imagines falling into them would be like falling forever and never landing. To avoid sleeping Demi accepts coffee and checks out the news from her destination on the screen before her.

“Ooouch!” The man beside her screeches when her hot black brew flies in his lap.

Turbulence and shock clashing as Demi is alerted to a headline couldn’t be helped. “So sorry – it’s the news – a police officer - suspected in an alleyway shooting.”

“Hmmf! Must be some special victim to be in the news. Happens every day in the capital,” the grumpy neighbour shot at her.

It’s time to think about me. After three hours in the air imagining channelling alien wisdom broadcasted through satellites to reach her epiphany, she believes this emphatically. Besides, now I have something. Someone as special as Aeon was. At last.

This is clear as soon as Demi lands back in Bing’s arms. She lets him undress her, without fear.

“What. Happened. To you?” Bing whispers as his fingers slide across the elegant engravings signifying her fierce determination to protect those ancient trees, skin that Demi can’t feel - the third-degree scarring embedded in her legs.

Demi lays back closing her eyes. Unafraid of the visuals in his safety shell, she lets her story out. “Maybe you’ve heard of me. When I was young, I spent 104 days in a tree in the forest. In protest…” tears appear, “… so that’s why I – me of all people – should have filmed that incident!”

Bing is silent. Then he sits upright, stunned. “You know what… Wait there. Let me get you a drink. I’ll be right back!” and he bolts to the hotel room door.

A state of unbelievability accumulates then disintegrates into insecure ruminations as Demi awaits his return. How could I believe he would accept me in my naked truth!

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“An espresso martini, please.” Demi permits a morning drink once again, with an option forming to potentially drink the rest of this weekend away. Here she is, back in the café from her last trip here – it’s like a circle being closed. Halfway through the martini she is ready to view Bing’s long message.

She reads: “Sorry. I was an arsonist at 14. I started the fire for the boss from Lumberjack Mack. Paid me $100. But I handed him in years later. That’s all. I can’t see u again. I’m not good enough 4 u. I am so truly sorry. Bing”

Astonished, but strangely relieved, Demi’s laugh rips through the café. People at the next table smile politely, they must think she’s still out on the town from the night before. Flicking through the carousel of photos from the day before with Bing, she keeps sliding, until she reaches an unknown clip from the day they met. Pressing play on the black screen triggers an audio only story. Running on gravel. A gunshot.

Demi now knows what she will do next.