Fixed chance

At some point someone mentions a celebration, a birthday, marriage, death?

“You’re coming right?”

“Uh sure.”

I respond, instinct, habituation compels me to agree with anything, in this state I think I would walk into the ocean if directed. The ocean is cool, wet, blue. How nice to be endless and unrestrained.

I find myself on the way to a bar. Apparently work is over, the responsibilities are over, my body doesn’t listen, an animal being hunted by slow emails, living through struggle over and over and over. I slump in the furthest corner of the table, drink what I’m handed until my body feels just numb enough that the scales tip in the favour of apathy over exhaustion.

“Your round next.” Someone delights next to me, Tim? Jim? They have names, I have a name. Probably.

The bar is halfway across the world through a maze of earthly delights; wooden tables and chairs, delightful in that they get to exist, I suppose.

“I’ll have to see some ID?”

I reach for my wallet and hand it over, the bar is made of real wood, varnished and speckled by years of ethanol rain and puddles, it looks loved.

“Sorry sir,” a laugh breaks the spell of wood grain and I look up to see a face I didn’t expect, “We only accept ID of living people.”

All I can do is blink, he’s smiling but I think he hates me; Michael.

“And you’re clearly dead.” He leans on the bar, our elbows almost touching, dressed the part in a plain white shirt, no tie, “I mean I assumed because you’re ignoring me Mr Alex-”

He looks down at my ID and then up at me several times, I reach for my ID but he’s less encumbered by alcohol than I am and pulls it away to look at in the dim light of the only spotlight at the bar. He scrutinises the piece of plastic with a familiar delight in his eyes.

“Please,” I beg, most bartenders don’t tend to look beyond the birth year, but when they do… “Please.”

“This almost makes up for you ignoring me,” He lightly taps the card against my forehead, “Aquamarine.”

I’m on the edge of my stomach turning itself inside out and escaping through my ribs or maybe dying on the spot then and there, evaporating like the many spirits spilled upon the wooden bar before me. I slip my ID back into my wallet and pull out my bank card instead.

“I’ll explain both things just…I need to buy a round for the table. Whatever the last person bought is fine. Then I’m all yours”

A waitress takes the drinks over leaving me and Michael opposite each other; I sit at the bar, it makes me about as tall as he is standing but I’m lower than he could ever be.

“So explain,” He says, setting a drink I didn’t order in front of me, it's an espresso martini but served in a whiskey glass, the shape feels wrong, its an unusual habitat, I can see glasses behind him so why did he decide to domesticate a cocktail, “Both why you’re ignoring me and why you’re secretly a semi precious gemstone.”

I explain the name first, it's easier to explain, years of experience of justifying my existence, “My parents thought it would be nice to give their children interesting names so we would stand out. They then immediately realised their mistake the first time I tried to write my own name. My sister is called Emily and my younger brother is called Christopher. My childhood dog was called Hamish.”

“I’m almost willing to forgive you, you’ve clearly had an awful upbringing. It’s been over a month though so no luck,” He places his elbow on the bar and his head in his hand and looks into my eyes with the sincerity of a misdemeanour, “Justify yourself to me.”

I look back to the table of my co-workers and then to the art student who loves me, loved me? “Work,” I explain and reach for my drink, it's cool to the touch but unearned, unjust, “I got an…unpaid promotion to lead the expansion of our current project, I think that was 6 weeks ago, I think I had 2 days off the whole time which I spent unconscious, I’ve had to speak to so many stakeholders about who knows what that I don’t think I remember my own name.”

“It’s Aquamarine.” A light is in his eyes, a flame of forgiveness or malice, I can’t tell, let alone in the dark bar, I can barely read his face, at least no more than usual.

“Alex,” I correct him, “What can I do to fix this?”

He thinks for a second before checking his watch, did he normally wear a watch? I hadn’t noticed it if so, the dial is luminescent in the dimness of the bar, just for work then, “Stay until the end of my shift and I’ll accept your apology.”

I accept the terms and spend the next three hours seated at the bar. It’s a weekday, I think, so it's quiet, tables stand empty, the door barely sees use, just more wall but with hinges. It is made easier by the fact I’m being plied with drinks the whole time so by the time it is time, my vision is blurring and I feel as exhausted as when I came in just from the opposite direction.

“I feel like you’re torturing me.”

“I am.”

“That’s fair. I deserve it.”

“Well when you act like that I just feel bad.” He places a hand on my forehead for a moment, his fingers feel cold from ice and bottles of cider, bones wrapped in thawed meat, but pretty, kind hands. Satisfied he begins to close up around me as I try to re-solidify into the shape of my own body. I can’t remember where I left my limbs so it's harder than usual.

“I read all your texts while I was waiting, just now. I’m sorry.” I push myself up from the bar and walk over to him, taking his free hand in mine, “Really sorry. You don’t have to forgive me but I want you to know I’m sorry I hurt you.”

Michael puts down the glass he was holding and takes my hands in his, now somewhat warmed, hands, “I thought you hated me!” He shakes my body, hands first, a tantrum, childishly endearing in a place only for adults.

I smile at the juxtaposition but any thoughts except the way he smells like beer and sweat evaporate away as I’m pulled against him, my head resting on his shoulder, his hands around me like I’ll fall if he lets go; a possibility.

“I said all that cringey stuff and you ran away for weeks, I thought I’d scared you off.” His voice is low, only I could have heard it even if the whole room was full of people. But it was just us, when had everyone left? I don’t think my co-workers said goodbye, nor did I.

“Let me walk you home, it's late.” I try to smile but it feels off kilter, uneven, uncharming, a useless smile to convey my absolute sincerity.

“I accept your terms but you have to answer everything I ask you.”

“I accept.”

I watch him finish closing down the bar and admire that he has skills I do not, knows things I do not, of course anyone would but I like when he does.

The evening air is cold, my suit jacket just enough to fight off the cutting breeze that finds entrances in parts of a suit I didn't know existed, as if it's passing through microscopic holes in the fabric and right into my flesh. Michael is prepared, and pulls a coat on over his shirt and black trousers. My eyesight is hazy and my mind more so but I feel like they’re the exact same as the ones he wore at the exhibition.

“You ready to go?” He slings an arm around my shoulders; I feel secure there, warm there, I feel like there is forgiveness in his voice but maybe I’m imagining what I hope exists.

“All good.” I ready myself for whatever he has to do to me to wring my body for forgiveness.

But in that moment before repentance the city is quiet, asleep, but we are awake and walking through its veins side by side.