Gin Joint

It was an "of all the gin joints" kind of moment. The lights were bright but I saw her in the back row. She was wearing this floppy hat she loved. She had said she was going to come but I thought, giving recent circumstances, that was off the books. Apparently not.

I took my time after curtain call, knowing she'd wait in the lobby. I'd like to say my heart wasn't hot, that it wasn't in my throat, that I wasn't nervous, that I could concentrate. I can't say any of that. I took a shot and told myself I had energy and could do this and took another shot and put on my coat.

I walked out and looked around. I looked to the couches and the groups of smiling audience. I waited by the bathrooms and checked my phone. I didn't see her anywhere, no hair of hers, no floppy hat. No text that told me how much she enjoyed the show, or even that it was clear everyone was having a lot of fun up there. I had another shot and then I left.

And there she was outside, standing on the curb. I saw the hat first. Then the familiar dress. Then the handsome guy whose arm she was playfully pushing. He looked at me, whoever he was, her cue to turn around. Oh my gosh, she told me, great job, so, so great. I thanked her, he said a version of the same, I thanked him. She asked me if I wanted to get a drink, in the slow and questioning way you ask someone who's already been drinking and might want to stop.

Did I want to stop? No. But go with them? Never. I made a polite goodbye and went in a direction I knew was wrong. It was cold but I felt warm inside, and even though it was a lie, it was something.