wanted a sandwich, hon?” She plucked a match from a box on the counter. “So what brings you to Edgeharbor?”
Good—let her do all the talking. But he thought she seemed to be watching him too closely, smiling over at him while she fixed a hot roast beef sandwich. The fatty odor made his head swim. Can’t seem to manage anymore. She chatted on, raising her voice above the television set that no one appeared to be watching, most of the patrons preferring to keep their attention on him. He tried to look around without seeming to, attempting to draw individual features from the pervasive gloom. Across the bar, a lighter flickered, and a man’s face became a goblin mask, then receded.
Various attempts had apparently been made to decorate the bar. A fake ship’s wheel hung against the paneled wall, but he could detect no other evidence of a nautical motif. Covered with cowgirl decals, an unlit jukebox stood silent, a Styrofoam snowman perched atop it. Plastic garland twisted around sections of the bar, and on a shelf, pink lights blinked from a tiny white tree effigy, the branches of which resembled bottlebrushes.
“I always get so depressed when I have to take it down.” She shrugged, noticing his stare. “Maybe this year, I’ll just leave it up permanent. What do you think?” Her husky laugh might have been sexy if she hadn’t started coughing. “So what did you say brings you here? Business? You don’t look like you’re from anywheres around here.”
He started to thank her but caught himself and just smiled instead. Okay, she likes that. There’d been a time when people had often complimented his smile. Keep working it. With a faint, detached amazement, he watched the flush rise in her cheeks. At least I can still do something right. Sort of. She smoothed her sweater, pulling it tight over her breasts. Shy little thing. He grinned appreciatively, feeling nothing but disgust with himself. This could be a break though, and he needed one: somebody had to answer his questions. “Pretty quiet tonight,” he began.
“Off-season.” She shrugged vaguely. “You need a glass?”
Off-season—he’d heard that up and down the coast, in every little shore town he’d been through, as though these people lived only for the few months of pounding sun, the rest of the year declining into a kind of stupor. The barmaid clicked away on incredibly high heels, and he noticed that, behind the row of bottles, a greasy fog had settled on what might once have been a tinted mirror. Between a fifth of Jack Daniel’s and a bottle of something with a bat on the label, he recognized the smear of his own reflection.
My Lord. Of all the transformations, of all the damaged and aching spots within, nothing showed. It seemed shockingly wrong. He looked the same, exactly the same.
Without quite intending to, he lifted the beer in a silent toast, and his teeth clenched. Doesn’t he look natural? Between yellowing blotches on the mirror, a handsome man raised his glass, and he studied the image. A lie. It sickened him. Even my appearance. As he wondered if anything about him had ever been honest, his grip tightened on the beer.
Here I am, alone. As usual. Gradually, he began to peer about more openly. Funny, how nothing ever changes. He found he envied even this muttering crowd their dreary camaraderie. At the far end of the bar, the barmaid looked almost glamorous, and the customers in the dimness might be lively, congenial. Who could tell? Sipping his beer, he returned his attention to the mirror, and the handsome image began to melt. The ears stood out red as blood, and the unshaven cheeks bristled. He downed the beer in uneven gulps. Years ago, in another lifetime it seemed, hadn’t women liked his eyes?
They looked frozen now. Like filthy ice at the bottom of a well.
Flanks trembling, the cat tried to slink back under the fence but crumpled before it reached the hole. A cardboard box with a burst bottom lay on its side
Good—let her do all the talking. But he thought she seemed to be watching him too closely, smiling over at him while she fixed a hot roast beef sandwich. The fatty odor made his head swim. Can’t seem to manage anymore. She chatted on, raising her voice above the television set that no one appeared to be watching, most of the patrons preferring to keep their attention on him. He tried to look around without seeming to, attempting to draw individual features from the pervasive gloom. Across the bar, a lighter flickered, and a man’s face became a goblin mask, then receded.
Various attempts had apparently been made to decorate the bar. A fake ship’s wheel hung against the paneled wall, but he could detect no other evidence of a nautical motif. Covered with cowgirl decals, an unlit jukebox stood silent, a Styrofoam snowman perched atop it. Plastic garland twisted around sections of the bar, and on a shelf, pink lights blinked from a tiny white tree effigy, the branches of which resembled bottlebrushes.
“I always get so depressed when I have to take it down.” She shrugged, noticing his stare. “Maybe this year, I’ll just leave it up permanent. What do you think?” Her husky laugh might have been sexy if she hadn’t started coughing. “So what did you say brings you here? Business? You don’t look like you’re from anywheres around here.”
He started to thank her but caught himself and just smiled instead. Okay, she likes that. There’d been a time when people had often complimented his smile. Keep working it. With a faint, detached amazement, he watched the flush rise in her cheeks. At least I can still do something right. Sort of. She smoothed her sweater, pulling it tight over her breasts. Shy little thing. He grinned appreciatively, feeling nothing but disgust with himself. This could be a break though, and he needed one: somebody had to answer his questions. “Pretty quiet tonight,” he began.
“Off-season.” She shrugged vaguely. “You need a glass?”
Off-season—he’d heard that up and down the coast, in every little shore town he’d been through, as though these people lived only for the few months of pounding sun, the rest of the year declining into a kind of stupor. The barmaid clicked away on incredibly high heels, and he noticed that, behind the row of bottles, a greasy fog had settled on what might once have been a tinted mirror. Between a fifth of Jack Daniel’s and a bottle of something with a bat on the label, he recognized the smear of his own reflection.
My Lord. Of all the transformations, of all the damaged and aching spots within, nothing showed. It seemed shockingly wrong. He looked the same, exactly the same.
Without quite intending to, he lifted the beer in a silent toast, and his teeth clenched. Doesn’t he look natural? Between yellowing blotches on the mirror, a handsome man raised his glass, and he studied the image. A lie. It sickened him. Even my appearance. As he wondered if anything about him had ever been honest, his grip tightened on the beer.
Here I am, alone. As usual. Gradually, he began to peer about more openly. Funny, how nothing ever changes. He found he envied even this muttering crowd their dreary camaraderie. At the far end of the bar, the barmaid looked almost glamorous, and the customers in the dimness might be lively, congenial. Who could tell? Sipping his beer, he returned his attention to the mirror, and the handsome image began to melt. The ears stood out red as blood, and the unshaven cheeks bristled. He downed the beer in uneven gulps. Years ago, in another lifetime it seemed, hadn’t women liked his eyes?
They looked frozen now. Like filthy ice at the bottom of a well.
Flanks trembling, the cat tried to slink back under the fence but crumpled before it reached the hole. A cardboard box with a burst bottom lay on its side
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