that, and downed them in neat succession—not like you haven’t made sacrifices before—even set the tumblers back onto the bar harder than necessary, to be sure she would tune in to your display.
Of course she couldn’t be bothered.
But, if you were her, then you would feign the same nonchalance, wouldn’t you?
It’s complicated, being you.
Hypervigilance and indifference are two sides of the same coin, yet you have to show both at once. Sometimes while spilling yourself into a crusty public commode.
But nobody said it was going to be easy.
Wedge your foot against the bathroom door and clean the vomit from your lips, now, check your face from every angle to be sure. Maybe a linger a touch, sure.
You’re anybody. You’re everybody.
Don’t smile, though. Not now, not this deep into it.
You knew better than to come out tonight, of course, in a city you know only by name, a convention destination you hadn’t even planned on, but doing what you know you shouldn’t, it makes your chest swell with satisfaction, too.
It’s not impulse overriding fear—you’re not that base—it’s commitment asserting itself, it’s recognizing your own hesitation as timidity, which would be even more base to submit to.
Walking back into the din and rush of the bar, nobody can see the grin that almost ghosts the corners of your mouth up.
You track her in the mirror as she tracks your progress back to your seat, and you’re tempted to drop a nod her way, just to see how she curls her lips, or if she doesn’t, but then her eyes do a thing you weren’t expecting: they give an irritated flick to the opposite corner, by the fire door.
Seriously?
No.
You’ve got to look, though.
Forty-eight seconds later (count them out on your cocktail napkin), you turn to the sound of a fan belt screeching in the street like a dying bird, and take in that dark corner. That corner she didn’t mean to give away.
A man. Just as nondescript as you.
His drink is watery, old.
You twist your seat back around, your eyes hot with possibility: her plan, then, it’s—it’s not to take him back to his place, slip him a pill, do a little late-night shopping. Pretend she’s the lady of the house for a few hours. Watch his chest rise and fall, a cloth napkin draped across his face so she won’t have to keep seeing him. Maybe stage a photo opportunity or two.
This is something else.
And—you see it, and now that you do, how did you miss it?
The bridge of her nose, her profile in the mirror. She’s like a Picasso painting, has probably been told all her life that she has a classic grace. Which is another way of saying that the bridge of her nose, it’s like the spinal crest you’ve seen on dinosaurs, in artists’ recreations: instead of forming a saddle, it’s a straight line up to the forehead, a clean ridge of flesh. A Roman nose, one that fills out the hollow spaces of a Centurion helmet.
And the man in the corner, covering the exit, he has it as well. Meaning that when he looks back at you, it’s straight-on, as his inner peripheral vision is next to nothing.
Brother and sister? Either that or—either that or it’s happening. They’re coming for you, they’re slinking into every background, are going to replace the crowd around you one by one, until you’re surrounded.
Because they know. They’re leaking in from, from—
No.
It makes your heart slap the inside of your chest, makes your throat dry, but no.
And don’t let it show. Never let it show.
They’re just a couple of freaks. A pair of coincidences who maybe know each other in some way. If you study hard enough, you can probably find two different people in the bar with lips that match, with earlobes from the same genetic strain, with the same college on their diplomas.
Cycle down, cycle down.
Curl back over your drink as if it’s why you’re here, and, two seats down, your skinny man, your stick man, your man with the nicotine-stained fingers and the raspy
Of course she couldn’t be bothered.
But, if you were her, then you would feign the same nonchalance, wouldn’t you?
It’s complicated, being you.
Hypervigilance and indifference are two sides of the same coin, yet you have to show both at once. Sometimes while spilling yourself into a crusty public commode.
But nobody said it was going to be easy.
Wedge your foot against the bathroom door and clean the vomit from your lips, now, check your face from every angle to be sure. Maybe a linger a touch, sure.
You’re anybody. You’re everybody.
Don’t smile, though. Not now, not this deep into it.
You knew better than to come out tonight, of course, in a city you know only by name, a convention destination you hadn’t even planned on, but doing what you know you shouldn’t, it makes your chest swell with satisfaction, too.
It’s not impulse overriding fear—you’re not that base—it’s commitment asserting itself, it’s recognizing your own hesitation as timidity, which would be even more base to submit to.
Walking back into the din and rush of the bar, nobody can see the grin that almost ghosts the corners of your mouth up.
You track her in the mirror as she tracks your progress back to your seat, and you’re tempted to drop a nod her way, just to see how she curls her lips, or if she doesn’t, but then her eyes do a thing you weren’t expecting: they give an irritated flick to the opposite corner, by the fire door.
Seriously?
No.
You’ve got to look, though.
Forty-eight seconds later (count them out on your cocktail napkin), you turn to the sound of a fan belt screeching in the street like a dying bird, and take in that dark corner. That corner she didn’t mean to give away.
A man. Just as nondescript as you.
His drink is watery, old.
You twist your seat back around, your eyes hot with possibility: her plan, then, it’s—it’s not to take him back to his place, slip him a pill, do a little late-night shopping. Pretend she’s the lady of the house for a few hours. Watch his chest rise and fall, a cloth napkin draped across his face so she won’t have to keep seeing him. Maybe stage a photo opportunity or two.
This is something else.
And—you see it, and now that you do, how did you miss it?
The bridge of her nose, her profile in the mirror. She’s like a Picasso painting, has probably been told all her life that she has a classic grace. Which is another way of saying that the bridge of her nose, it’s like the spinal crest you’ve seen on dinosaurs, in artists’ recreations: instead of forming a saddle, it’s a straight line up to the forehead, a clean ridge of flesh. A Roman nose, one that fills out the hollow spaces of a Centurion helmet.
And the man in the corner, covering the exit, he has it as well. Meaning that when he looks back at you, it’s straight-on, as his inner peripheral vision is next to nothing.
Brother and sister? Either that or—either that or it’s happening. They’re coming for you, they’re slinking into every background, are going to replace the crowd around you one by one, until you’re surrounded.
Because they know. They’re leaking in from, from—
No.
It makes your heart slap the inside of your chest, makes your throat dry, but no.
And don’t let it show. Never let it show.
They’re just a couple of freaks. A pair of coincidences who maybe know each other in some way. If you study hard enough, you can probably find two different people in the bar with lips that match, with earlobes from the same genetic strain, with the same college on their diplomas.
Cycle down, cycle down.
Curl back over your drink as if it’s why you’re here, and, two seats down, your skinny man, your stick man, your man with the nicotine-stained fingers and the raspy
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