CHRISTINA TUDOR
Familiar Beats
In the window of his favorite bar, there is a bird made of wires and fluorescent lights. Stuck to the glass and unmoving, the un-alive thing cannot use its wings but he imagines the bird can soar off somewhere else. But really, the bird’s lights will dim as soon as the bar closes and he will have to wait until morning to be bright again.
His quasi-ex-wife is running late. They are not yet divorced but it is easier for him to already frame her as an ex, solidify the ending in his mind. They agreed to meet at his favorite bar, three blocks from the house they shared until they didn’t. The bartender is young and blonde and couldn’t have been much more than twenty. His hands carved with dips and valleys that can no longer be smoothed over, his body shrinking and curving over, he is well past the age where he can judge how young or old others are. Everyone is younger compared to him. The bartender smiles at him, recognizes him because he comes in everyday at 4pm, and brings him his usual single beer and a plate of fries. The fries curl into each other, their bodies looped together like linked arms.
Mil arrives, finally. Skin spotted in age, earrings drooping towards her shoulders like her ears can’t hold the weight of them anymore. He realizes that he must look this frail too. He feels the strong urge to reach out and squeeze her hand as she sits down at the bar stool next to him, to feel her pulse beneath his fingers. Still beating through warm skin.
When they were younger, they’d lay in bed together on Sunday mornings before mass. She’d roll over and press an ear to his chest, tapping out the music of his heartbeat with her fingers against him. Tap, tap, tap.
Now, they sit at a distance. A stool between them. He looks over at the glowing bird in the window, the neon sign for Corona reflected backwards at them.
“You still come here at the same time every day,” Mil comments. Her purse on the counter, he can see the hint of green of a pack of Marlboros peeking out. She used to always swear she was going to quit. Then it became too late to quit.
He nods. “Routine is good. Everyone knows where they can find me.” He swears she almost smiles. After all this time, his movements are still familiar, predictable. He was willing to bet that if she pulled out her pack of cigarettes, he would find one in there with only a third of it sucked down. She only let herself have little bits at a time.
He took a sip of his usual beer, comforted that he could be sure of this. Like he could be sure that the neon bird in the window would eventually go dark.
Christina Tudor is a writer, digital communications professional, and vegan taco enthusiast living in Washington, D.C. Her fiction has been featured in HAD, Flash Frog, The Daily Drunk, and more. She can be reached on Twitter @christinaltudor