tunnel vision

I was alone and it was snowing. I rode my bicycle over creases in the asphalt that buckled up to meet my spinning spokes as they rose and fell with the consistency of a heartbeat. I ended at a restaurant, just a glorified bar where no one really expects you to order anything complicated – just fries and a beer, please. Maybe a double shot of plastic bottle whiskey if I’m feeling extra self-aware, a double dose of certainty that I’m alone and will be for a while. This place looked so damn cool the first time we walked in here, together, and yes, we’d like the patio seats; it’s such a nice night. We’ll spend too much money on watered down beer and pretend I’m not drunk when it’s time to drive us both back home. Our home, our overpriced, faux-chic apartment next to all the other families who can’t afford a house and want to act like they don’t want one when it’s really the husband’s blooming alcoholism or the wife’s shopping addiction keeping them from actualizing the title of “homeowner”. I’m getting off track.

I sat at the bar with a plate of half-frozen fries sprinkled with hypertension and a hint of future obesity and thought about nothing. This is something I’ve been developing recently, a talent I never thought I’d have: the ability to remove you and the years from my head for a few minutes at a time. It feels like Atlas shuffling the earth from one shoulder to the other, but it’s worth it - especially when I have my hands around the glass, slippery from condensation and concentration. I barely maintain any periphery, any awareness of any other sad fucking soul crouched over the bar like we’re all panning for gold with our pints and shots and fancy fucking martini glasses. I’m just trying to count the rings in the fake wooden bar in front of me – another beer, please.
I think she sat down somewhere after the fourth – not too far to catch up, if you’re really trying. She’s talking to me and I’m following her lips more than her words, the way they grip and grab each syllable before it tumbles out. I’m watching the way each word is shaped, molded, spit-shined before it hits my ears, and I’m in love with language. I’m in love with the ideas she speaks, but I can’t remember her name. I hope I’m responding, I’m never quite sure, but the sentences keep coming so I assume we’ve made it another moment further into the conversation. And another, and another, and another. It feels like I’m walking deeper into water with every sip, and I’d say it’s somewhere around my throat by now, that semi-frantic feeling where you tip your head back to gasp for air and stare at the sky like a cloud might see the whites of your eyes and let someone know you’re drowning. She notices my eyes sliding, notices my hand clutching the empty glass like I’m a cheating student reading all the answers by braille. She’s watching me and the water's up around my head now, so I feign surprise at my empty glass and signal the bartender. By the time I’m full, she’s gone, and I’m alone.