As he predicted (although he mixed the word in his head, a miswire in elementary, to "predicated") Maggie disappeared. It had been three days. Three days and I only just thought of her. Work, drinks, dinner, home, repeat. Three days since she paused in the doorway. He slept in on Saturday morning, stretched and enjoyed the freedom of no one there.
...
That night. "Where'd she go?" He didn't look at Bryon. Instead intent on the thick drops of condensation on his mug, turned into dark lines. They ran down the glass and across the glass top. This was the worst kind of drunk. Too angry to feel good, too nauseated that the swooning hurt. An induced swirl, like riding the teacups at gunpoint.
"Do you c-?" The bartender hit the flat of the sink with a frozen bottle. It pushed grey slush to the bottle's lip. She cut it with ouzo and stirred it into a tall glass with a handmade black licorice. Who the f*ck would drink that?
"What?"
"Do you care? I mean do you really, really care?" Ugh, that word. By pulled the rest of his Killians down and fingered for another. Til' didn't even need to acknowledge, her curly dark hair swirled around as she expertly grabbed, pulled and mixed for everyone. Her eyes had a green tinge on their extremities, as did her lipstick. She was awful at conversation. So bad that no one even bothered anymore.
"I..." don't. But he couldn't let it out. It was overly brash. He did not care, but it wasn't right to put it out there, not like that. It's not a fair thing to ask, not yet. "And you, By, do you care if Lola left you, then?"
He smiled his crooked, stupid smile. He was pissed tipsy, hovering in place. A lumbering giant of a guy, with wicked crooked teeth, like how he pictured the Artful Dodger should look. Crooked teeth are the sign of a crooked heart. Byron smelled like sh*t, too.
"You know their kind right?" And, then "I don't let her leave." He leaned into the bar to stop the rotation. Take off your jacket, you smell like Doritos and piss. Byron stared ahead and didn't say a word for a few minutes. His face struggled with something, then grew dark, "Who wants to be lonely, then? Eh?"
He waved to Til' for another one. The bar top glowed with the bill. I hit the limit. He quickly flipped Byron's drinks off of it, approved and pressed his finger down. A new bill flashed in front of Byron and he bristled straightaways. "What's this then?"
"I can't afford you, By. I didn't make quota this week," it was true.
"Well, sh*t. I don't have skrill." That was true too.
He sipped his drink, "Not my problem."
...
He left right after, not knowing if he would ever see him again. Edifying = no. I just fell into hanging out.
He swung around the places he knew that Maggie would go, only stopping short of asking around.
At the Juice he walked around the solid walls of sound, the lights turning in and out of color, texture, or switching to laser. They walked all around him, taking it all in. It worked better if they moved. The music was what you would typically expect at a club, but it was off by one bar, it was off on a back beat, or just that little something so you knew it was not right.
He made a beeline straight for the bookstore. He felt the instant ebb of warmness that his hunch was right. She would be there (like solving a puzzle more than anything else). What would I do if she is there?
He stopped and peered through the window. It was a spot he knew no one could see him and he didn't look like a creep. I would just say 'hi', perhaps she would say something alarming enough for me to sit. We would talk for fifteen. It would be nice, actually she would make sure to keep it light, light enough to have him sit and enjoy the conversation after so long a week, after so many drinks. They would talk and realize they should order a tea. I wouldn't even have to ask, I know she likes English Breakfast with creme and sugar, no honey. They would talk and then, after a time she would talk about one of his favorite books, something deep she would offer and he would, almost unknowingly, ask her to explain her posit. Then, they would walk and find themselves at home.
"Come up."
"No."
"You should, come on, it's late and its silly not to. Just sleep, nothing else, I swear."
But then they would talk more, like old friends. It has been three days. And they would stare at one another, or feel one another's hands. The warmness, the loneliness rushing over his member and it all would go. And it would be that sweet love. Slow and tender, thoughtful and when she came she would pull a little tuft of hair on the back of his head and breath into his face. Her breath was always incredible.
He felt himself get hard and shifted. She's not here.
He walked another two miles, hitting parks, stores, a 24-hour pizzeria. Wherever Maggie was, it was not in this little part of the world. Where the f*ck is she? He would call, but she didn't have a phone.
...
[part 4 here]
