wider when he holds the cigarette before him and it turns into a shiny black snake that slithers up his arm and into his mouth invading the space where his tongue ought to be.
I freeze. Waiting for time to stop, for the crows to appear. Convinced it’s another hallucination, when he laughs—the sound loud, booming, lingering in the background as he says, “Guess I’m on my own, then.” He reaches into his pocket, retrieves a silver and turquoise lighter, and brings it to his lips where a cigarette waits in place of the snake—his thumb striking the ribbed metal wheel, sparking the blaze that flames in his face.
He inhales deeply, the two of us staring through dark lenses it’s too late to wear. And before he can exhale, before he can blow a string of smoke rings my way, I’m gone. Crossing the street, my breath quickening, heart racing, punching in Jennika’s number the instant my foot leaves the curb, leaving a stream of messages and texts so ugly they make the postcard read like a love letter in comparison.
I’m acting ridiculous. I seriously need to get a grip on myself. What I saw wasn’t real. Still, I’m left unsettled in a way I can’t shake.
With only a few feet of asphalt standing between the bus stop and me, I can’t help but consider it. But it’s too open, too exposed, consisting of no more than a splintered wooden bench and a shabby plastic shelter that looks ready to collapse under the next burst of rain. Not to mention it’s probably the first place Paloma would look. She may be crazy, but she’s not stupid, of that I am sure.
Needing to find a place to hide out, maybe even grab a quick bite to eat, I drop my phone in my bag, just about to set off again, when I notice the way the battery flashes in warning, as a glaring neon sign switches on right before me.
THE RABBIT HOLE.
And just beside the glowing red words is a glowing jagged green arrow pointing toward a steep flight of steps.
A basement bar.
The perfect place to hide until my bus comes to take me away.
The last place Paloma or Chay would ever think to look.
Taking it as the first good omen I’ve had in weeks, I tackle the stairs and rush through the door, entering a place so dark and dim it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust.
“ID.” An overly muscled, no-neck bouncer eyeballs me carefully.
“Oh, I’m not drinking, I just want to grab a soda, and maybe a bite.” I force a quick smile, but it’s wasted on him. He sees himself as a badass, a tough guy, someone who’s immune to small pleasantries.
“ID,” he repeats, chasing it with, “no ID, no enter.”
I nod, slide my duffle down to my elbow, and dig through a tangle of clothes until I fish out my passport and hand it right over. My breath bubbles in my cheeks as he studies it, mutters something I can’t quite make out, then motions for my right hand where he presses a stamp to the back before dismissing me with an impatient look.
Once inside, I take a good look around. My gaze darting along red vinyl banquettes, dark wooden tables, wall-to-wall carpet of indeterminate color, and a long mahogany bar crowded with patrons—the majority bearing the tired glazed look of people who’ve been teetering on their bar stools too long.
Searching for an empty seat, preferably one in a dark, undisturbed corner where only the waitress can find me, it’s not long before I spy an older couple vacating just the kind of small booth I need, and I’m quick to claim it well before their dirty plates can be cleared.
I pluck a menu from its holder, taking great care to maneuver around its sticky edges as I study the array of salty bar snacks on offer—all of them chosen to whet the thirst and make you drink more.
“Somethin’?”
I look up, startled. I hadn’t heard her approach.
“Would. You. Like. Somethin’?” The waitress smirks, makes a point to over-enunciate every word. Tapping her pen against her hip in a way that tells me she’s so used to getting crap
I freeze. Waiting for time to stop, for the crows to appear. Convinced it’s another hallucination, when he laughs—the sound loud, booming, lingering in the background as he says, “Guess I’m on my own, then.” He reaches into his pocket, retrieves a silver and turquoise lighter, and brings it to his lips where a cigarette waits in place of the snake—his thumb striking the ribbed metal wheel, sparking the blaze that flames in his face.
He inhales deeply, the two of us staring through dark lenses it’s too late to wear. And before he can exhale, before he can blow a string of smoke rings my way, I’m gone. Crossing the street, my breath quickening, heart racing, punching in Jennika’s number the instant my foot leaves the curb, leaving a stream of messages and texts so ugly they make the postcard read like a love letter in comparison.
I’m acting ridiculous. I seriously need to get a grip on myself. What I saw wasn’t real. Still, I’m left unsettled in a way I can’t shake.
With only a few feet of asphalt standing between the bus stop and me, I can’t help but consider it. But it’s too open, too exposed, consisting of no more than a splintered wooden bench and a shabby plastic shelter that looks ready to collapse under the next burst of rain. Not to mention it’s probably the first place Paloma would look. She may be crazy, but she’s not stupid, of that I am sure.
Needing to find a place to hide out, maybe even grab a quick bite to eat, I drop my phone in my bag, just about to set off again, when I notice the way the battery flashes in warning, as a glaring neon sign switches on right before me.
THE RABBIT HOLE.
And just beside the glowing red words is a glowing jagged green arrow pointing toward a steep flight of steps.
A basement bar.
The perfect place to hide until my bus comes to take me away.
The last place Paloma or Chay would ever think to look.
Taking it as the first good omen I’ve had in weeks, I tackle the stairs and rush through the door, entering a place so dark and dim it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust.
“ID.” An overly muscled, no-neck bouncer eyeballs me carefully.
“Oh, I’m not drinking, I just want to grab a soda, and maybe a bite.” I force a quick smile, but it’s wasted on him. He sees himself as a badass, a tough guy, someone who’s immune to small pleasantries.
“ID,” he repeats, chasing it with, “no ID, no enter.”
I nod, slide my duffle down to my elbow, and dig through a tangle of clothes until I fish out my passport and hand it right over. My breath bubbles in my cheeks as he studies it, mutters something I can’t quite make out, then motions for my right hand where he presses a stamp to the back before dismissing me with an impatient look.
Once inside, I take a good look around. My gaze darting along red vinyl banquettes, dark wooden tables, wall-to-wall carpet of indeterminate color, and a long mahogany bar crowded with patrons—the majority bearing the tired glazed look of people who’ve been teetering on their bar stools too long.
Searching for an empty seat, preferably one in a dark, undisturbed corner where only the waitress can find me, it’s not long before I spy an older couple vacating just the kind of small booth I need, and I’m quick to claim it well before their dirty plates can be cleared.
I pluck a menu from its holder, taking great care to maneuver around its sticky edges as I study the array of salty bar snacks on offer—all of them chosen to whet the thirst and make you drink more.
“Somethin’?”
I look up, startled. I hadn’t heard her approach.
“Would. You. Like. Somethin’?” The waitress smirks, makes a point to over-enunciate every word. Tapping her pen against her hip in a way that tells me she’s so used to getting crap
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