Turn of Mind - Alice LaPlante [79]
You notice another glass at your elbow. This one is smaller, not cold. Filled with a rich amber-colored liquid. You pick it up and swallow. It burns going down, but it is not distasteful. You drink again, and it is gone.
Another? asks the man. You are startled. You did not realize he was still there, still watching. You nod. You test out your voice again.
Certainly, you say.
He gives a short laugh and again you catch that look. He places another small glass on the counter, pours, pushes it in your direction. You leave it there, turn your attention to the tall cold glass, and take a sip. This goes down easier. Beer, yes.
Your father always pours a small amount into a teacup for you whenever he opens one for himself. This one quenches your thirst in a way the other one didn’t. You drink deeply. You are starting to feel good—you hadn’t noticed how on edge you had been. That edge is dissipating. Slow, pleasurable warmth. A heaviness of limbs. Colors are brighter, the noise subdued. You have traveled into a private space within the organism, a private pocket of comfort. You love it here. You will come back every night. You will bring your mother and father and let them work their considerable magic on these delightful people, your comrades.
The bartender puts a napkin and some silverware in front of you. You pick up the knife. There is something about this. Something that is familiar yet strange. You have a sense of anticipation. You press the sharp edge of the knife against the wooden counter, press and pull it toward you. A white line appears in the wood, straight and true.
If you could press harder, split open this dark matter, what would come out? What would be revealed? O the excitement of exploration! You pick up your beer again and drink some more. Good. You had not realized how tight your shoulders were, the tension in your neck.
Waiting for someone?
The voice is from a girl to your left. She is about your age, you estimate. Perhaps a little older. Twenty. Twenty-two perhaps. Very pretty. Her hair cut so that it hangs longer on one side of her face than the other, and fringed unevenly at the edges. It is not unattractive. She has a nice smile. Her eyes are ringed with blue, mascaraed to bring out their size and brilliance.
Am I? You consider this. You want to answer, but you do not yet trust that the words will match your intent. You try.
No, you say. I’m alone.
You are heartened that she is not disconcerted. You try again. I was hungry, you say. This looked nice.
Oh, it’s a great little place. We love it. She gestures to a young man on the other side of her. He watches the television. And Ron takes good care of everyone. She smiles at the man behind the counter. He leans forward to you and speaks confidentially.
If this young lady gives you any trouble, just let me know. I’ll take care of her, he says. The pretty girl laughs.
A plate of noodles covered with thick red sauce appears in front of you. It smells fabulous. You are ravenous. You pick up the fork and begin eating.
So, let me guess. You’re a professor. This is the young man to the girl’s left. He has forsaken the television, the beautiful girls, and now seems to be addressing you.
Excuse me? You wipe your mouth. The food is as good as it looks. The noodles al dente, the sauce rich and aromatic with spices. So much better than what you could do. James is the real cook, the children’s faces fall when they come into the kitchen and find you there.
The girl interrupts. Oh, it’s just a game we play in bars. Guessing who people are, what they do. He thinks you look like a college professor. I can see that. But I need to think about it before I guess. There