And Then I Woke Up

And then I woke up. The lines between my reality and the next blurred into a cocktail of chaos and enchantment. The melody of intoxication filled the bar as the mic stood alone. Voices of my past rung stagnant within my mind, tearing down finally the decrepit walls I had left behind. Lost feelings were now found, ruminating within the chasms of my mistakes. The old-fashioned sits across the bar, staring at the lonely mic. Where are the sounds of the night?

A stranger grasps his glass. His lips were worn from many tales told and washed down by the taste of whiskey. His story begins with music. His eyes matched where his poison sets, glassy with a tint of shade. His eyes do not have to meet mine for us to realize that we know each other. The man clasps his face and smooths over his whiskers, to remind himself that he is still there. He denies himself the truth that I am there watching him.

Night after night, the stranger returns. Night after night, I watch from across the bar. He orders his old-fashioned and stares at that mic. The wrinkles of his face never form a smile nor frown. A wrinkle in time sets the stage each night at eight. He becomes lost in the music that never plays. Rowdy night-goers do not faze him. Beautiful women do not catch his glance. He lives for his own pleasure, whatever that may have been. And that fascinated me, to live so carefree.

As many moons pass, I don’t remember the sun to ever rise. Obsession obscured my judgement, and that’s all I seem to do these days. I begin not to remember the life that I have lived and find solace in the life that I am living. I laugh to myself when I realize that I am becoming the man that I have been studying.

It was a Friday night. For the first night in weeks, the stranger that had become a relic of habit, was not present. At this sudden change, I grew finally aware of the time I had been wasting. I called over the bartender to order a drink. Before I could tell him what I wanted, he passed a short crystalline glass down the slick counter. I took hold of the golden drink and savored it. It was an old-fashioned. Clearly, I had not been mistaken for the old man, right?

And like the sound of a heartbeat, a woman appeared on-stage, tapping the mic. Her angelic face was too soft to command the attention of the slew of drunken merriment. I looked behind me to the tables whom paid her no attention. “Testing, testing,” She cooed softly into the mic. She bit into her lower-lip in disappointment, leaving a cherry stain on the edge of her smile. The tears which welled up in her eyes made her blue irises sparkle evermore. She had as much hairspray and bobby pins as she did fears. That was clearly on her face as she looked onwards to the pit of her disappointment.

There she was. My new fascination. Her red-sequined dress barely covered her upper thighs, a ploy at drawing in a crowd which apparently was not going as planned. Then she surprised me. She opened her mouth and suddenly became much more interesting. She wasn’t just another pretty face. She deserved the eyes of thousands, for her voice lit the room as brightly as a thousand suns. Instantly, I was captivated by the siren as I was lured closer to the stage. Soon, I was at the edge of the bar counter, stirring my drink. Too busy was I allured by her divine song, to even remember the drink that was accompanying me.

The mic no longer stood alone, and how lucky was it. That night, I immediately asked to court her. She thought I were mad but could not hide the flattery from her blushing expression. The woman agreed to see me again if I promised to watch her again next Friday. I did more than accept her offer. Next Friday night at eight, she walked upon the stage to greet the full house. Every head turned her way, but her head turned to mine with a smile. She sang a familiar song of love and the like, and to her surprise I joined her that night. I took her hand and opened my chords, matching her soft voice in perfect harmony. My booming voice did not need the mic, though at the end of the song we shared hers and also a kiss.

My life had found meaning and purpose. My soul was in the music and my heart was hers. Though not everyone found her as flattering as I did. After many moons, record dealers sought me and my name, but not hers. She was devastated but would never admit it. I found her face in tears in her dressing room one Friday evening before our usual show. I instantly ran to her aid, but she shoved me away in anger. She was upset that I would not pursue the contracts I had been offered. She held her stomach and told me a story with her eyes like she did that night.

“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?” I asked. At this she only cried harder. I took her into my arms and promised that everything would be alright. I promised to provide for this baby regardless of any silly contract I was offered. I would find a new way. I kissed her atop the forehead and lifted her face to mine and smiled. The next day I found a real job to provide for my family I would soon have. I worked long hours as my life passed by me. There were no more moments I could waste if I ever fancied. I asked my darling to live for me, to make stories for a child.

I was finally in a position of wealth and our child was starting to grow evident in her womb. Despite this, she continued her gig every Friday night at precisely eight o’clock. Friday nights after her return, she started to tell me stories of how she was afraid. There was a man who would watch her intensely every performance. She told me she could feel him watching her, even after the show and asked me to come to her performances again just as spectator to see for myself.

Though after my long hours at the office, I had no desire to sit around in bars anymore. I had no desire to watch the life my wife was living while I was slowly wasting mine away. I told her it was all in her imagination. The pregnancy was now halfway over. She never made mention of the alleged stalker again. She agreed to do one more performance, then to stay off her feet for the remainder of her pregnancy. She would stay in and plan the nursery, knit him booties and the rest of the preparations while I continued with my work.

I kissed her farewell as she patted down her red-sequined dress as she was wearing the night we first met. She bit the bottom of her cherry-tinted lip and smiled in the mirror back at her glowing self. “Isn’t that a little tight, darling?” I joked. She kissed me again and looked me in the eyes, awaiting her kiss on the forehead. She was as radiant as the night we first met. And that was the last time I saw her.

It was thirty minutes past midnight at this point and I could stare at the clock no longer. I called a buggy to the bar to make sure all was alright. I was greeted by men in uniform, placing their arms as guards from entryway into the bar. “Where is my wife?!” I demanded. “She is pregnant. Is she alright?” I shouted. Then men didn’t answer, and I shoved past them with all my might. The mic stood alone. And my beloveds lay before it. My sirens lay in a sea of blood, never to sing with my heart again.

After that night, life became a blur. I quit my job and spent the spoils of my greed in poison. As soon as the bar had been opened again, I returned to face the chasms of my mistakes. I grasp the glass but am too lost within my own self-pity to bring the remembrance of the drink to my lips. I stare blankly at the mic as it first was, standing alone. Visions of that red-sequined dress, those cherry-tinted lips, fade into the stain in my memory, ingrained upon the pool of blood on the floor. The memory of time that once was, remains until last call.

I return night after night. Every Friday at eight o’clock, I order my drink and wait for life to happen. I rub the whiskers on my face to remind myself that I exist. Though that doesn’t prove that a soul or heart still reside within this shell. I feel the eyes of a stranger across the bar. I don’t return his stare, but I don’t have to look back to realize that I know him from somewhere. And then I woke up.