“What’d you say?” I ask, thinking I must have heard him wrong.
“I said, ‘Don’t do it.’ Don’t call him.” He is stone-faced, but something in his brown eyes looks amused.
Too dumbfounded to issue an outright denial, I say, “What makes you think I was calling a him?”
He shrugs, takes the stool next to mine, and says, “Well? Am I right?”
I shrug, fight a smile, and tell him yeah, he’s right.
“Who is he?”
“My ex.”
“Well. He’s your ex for a reason. Onward.”
I stare at him, speechless, thinking that it’s almost as if he’s a secret agent hired by Scottie to spy on me. Or maybe he’s my personal guardian angel, like Clarence in It’s a Wonderful Life.
Meanwhile, the bartender returns, and my new stool mate orders a Jack and Coke while gazing up at the wall of liquor partitioning the bar. “And…let’s see…two shots of Goldschläger.”
“Goldschläger?” I say with a laugh. “Didn’t see that coming.”
“I’m full of surprises,” he says. “And you look like you need it.”
I shake my head and tell him I don’t do shots.
“That’s a lie right there,” he says, smiling at me.
He’s right, of course—so I smile back at him as the bartender retrieves the long-necked bottle, unscrews the top, and fills two shot glasses to the brim, placing them before us, then walking away again. We pluck them off the bar in tandem, raising them to eye level.
“To moving on,” he says.
“To moving on,” I repeat under my breath.
We make eye contact before throwing them back. It takes me two swallows to finish mine, my throat burning. But I remain stoic, skipping the standard chaser and grimace.
“Feel better?” he asks.
I say yes, marveling that I actually do. “How about you?” I ask, prying a little.
“Yes,” he says. “I do, too.”
It’s an easy, natural opening to ask for his story—who he loves or no longer loves—or at least the usual barroom questions you pose to strangers. What’s your name? Where’re you from? Where’d you go to school? What do you do for a living? But I don’t go there. I don’t go anywhere. Instead, I just enjoy our quiet camaraderie, the feeling of not being alone, the miraculous absence of misery. He must feel something of the same, because over the next hour and a half and several drinks, we talk remarkably little, yet neither of us makes a move to leave.
And then it’s last call. I suggest a parting shot of Goldschläger, and he agrees that it’s a good idea. This time we skip a toast, but I silently replay our first one. To moving on. That is definitely what I am trying to do.
When our check arrives, he pulls his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans while I reach for my purse. He shakes his head, and says, no, he’ll get it. I start to protest, but say thank you instead.
“You’re welcome,” he says. “Thank you.”
“For what?” I ask.
“You know,” he says, removing several bills from his wallet and putting them on the bar.
I nod, because I think I do.
He catches me staring at him and looks self-conscious for the first time all night. “What?” he says, running his hand through his hair.
“Nothing,” I say.
“You were definitely thinking something…” he says, returning his wallet to his back pocket before pushing up the sleeves of his sweatshirt.
“I was thinking that I still don’t know your name,” I say.
“Is that your way of asking my name?” he says with a smile, now resting his forearms on the bar.
I try not to smile back, and shake my head. “Not at all,” I say. “I was just stating a fact. I actually don’t want to know your name.”
“Good,” he says. “Because I don’t want to know your name, either.”
“Swell,” I say, sliding off my stool, noticing my cardigan on the floor. I pick it up, put it on, then slowly button it, stalling. Now it’s my turn to feel self-conscious, but I mask it by extending my arm and making my expression prim. “So thank you again,” I say. “For the drinks and the company. Goodbye. Whatever your name is.”
“Yep. Goodbye,” he says, shaking my hand, his grip tight and warm. “Whatever your name is.”
I start to let go, but he holds on, pulling me toward him until my side is touching his knee, my hand still in his. I feel something funny in my stomach—something I haven’t felt in a very long time. For a second, I think it’s butterflies. I think it’s him.
But as the overhead lights brighten over the bar, and the jukebox grinds to a halt, and he drops my hand, I decide that such a thing isn’t possible. That it must just be the Goldschläger.
* * *
—
A few minutes later, after we’ve both gone to the restroom, and I’ve confirmed that I look like shit but remind myself that it doesn’t matter in the slightest, we are standing outside the bar. The temperature has dropped, but the air is so still that I don’t feel cold. The liquor helps, too. He announces that he’s going to the subway, and asks how I’m getting home. I tell him I’m taking a cab, and he says he’ll stay with me until we find one. Meanwhile, we start walking up the avenue, one block passing after another, both of us pretending not to see on-duty taxis drift by. Eventually we reach the steps of my building.
“This is it. Where I live,” I say, turning to face him. He’s much taller than I am, so I climb a stair, then another, looking into his eyes.
“All right, then,” he says, leaning against the railing. “Good night for real this time.”
“Yep. Good night for real,” I say.
But neither of us moves, and after a long pause, he says, “Maybe I do want to know your name, after all?”
“Are you sure?” I say with my best poker face. “That’s a pretty major step.”
“You’re right,” he says, playing along. “Way too forward. My bad.”
Several seconds pass before I fold first.
“Sooo…Maybe you should just come in with me instead?” I am shocked to hear myself say. It’s not like me to be so spontaneous, downright foolish. He could be a serial killer for all I know. Didn’t they say Ted Bundy was good-looking? But for some inexplicable reason, it feels right.