* * *
“Ms. Fitch, Ms. Fitch. You’re back.”
“I’m back.”
He claps as if to applaud me. They all do. All three. As if they know I limped back here from the abyss.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Close Your Eyes” by Al Bowlly playing at full volume as I enter the bar. Empty for the most part. Except for them.
They’re sitting just as they were before, more or less. Deep in drink. Suits the color of night. The middling man looking at me like I’m a puzzle, I’m a dream, but he’s putting me together, piece by piece. It’s all beginning to assemble into an image. He’s starting to see. And what he sees delights him. There’s a sheen to his salesman face tonight, a smile to his bloodshot eyes. I’m the best kind of theater. The fat man is still slumped into incomprehension. Head on the bar, yellow-gray Medusa locks falling across his eyes like a sick veil. The third man—tall, slender, beautiful as a dream, though I only ever see a sliver of his moon-shaped profile—has his suited back to me tonight. But he’s listening, he’s with us, he’s smiling at me even, I feel this. I can tell by the back of his head, the shape of his skull, the nape of smooth neck flesh above his white shirt collar, that he’s hearing me intently. Toasting me with his golden drink.
“Pour her one,” the middling man says to the bartender. “We need it, am I right?”
Am I right?
I recall the dean. His small blue eyes shining idiotically. Am I right? Am I right? Do they know about the dean? How can they possibly know about Puffy Nips?
“We do, we do,” the fat man whispers. “Am I right?”
They all chuckle.
And then it’s there before me in a squat glass. I stare at the drink’s golden-green color. Green like the leaf-green eyes of Briana. Golden as Hugo’s hair. Glowing as if the liquid had a light of its own. As if it were a prop.
“Well, Ms. Fitch. What are we even waiting for?”
How do you know my name again?
“Ticktock, ticktock, Ms. Fitch.”
“？’Tis time, ’tis time,” whispers the fat man.
I drink. They all clap again. The fat man thumps and thumps his hand on the bar. Though the beautiful man has his back turned, I see him clapping too. It brings tears to my eyes, the sound of their tender applause. The music brightens my insides, I feel it brightening my blood. The fist of my body unfurls, opens its hands, fingers. I feel my nerves sigh. A candle in my heart relit, the flame growing tall again.
They applaud, so joyously now.
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you, all.” And I bow my head a little. And suddenly it doesn’t hurt to breathe, to sit, anymore. It feels like the golden peak of summer is inside of me. I’m smiling. Am I smiling? Yes. Wide. From ear to ear.
“There,” the middling man says. “There, there. Better now. Aren’t we better now, Ms. Fitch?”
I nod, yes. Better now. Much better now.
“All’s well that ends well.”
“I’m directing that play,” I tell him.
“Are you?” he says, looking not at all surprised.
And then I remember, I’m not. Not anymore.
“Trouble,” says the middling man. “Trouble in the theater. Trouble with your back.” He shakes his head.
“？‘Double, double toil and trouble,’？” The fat man laughs, wheezes, coughs.
The slender man makes a tsk-tsk sound.
“Trouble,” I agree. “So much trouble.”
“Tell us the trouble,” the middling man says. “I’d love to lend an ear. I’m a listener. And we love theater, Ms. Fitch.”
I smile at the middling man, my body like golden honey. He seems taller than before. Bigger. They all do.
I was going to kill myself tonight, I want to tell him. I just didn’t want to do it on the highway. It felt wrong plot-wise. What felt right was to come here. To stop in and have this lovely drink first. And say goodbye to you. Even though I hardly know you, sir, do I? Not even your name. What is your name again?
The middling man smiles compassionately. Bloodshot eyes shining. I don’t need to speak. He sees all already. Knows all already. All my misery. My humiliations. He sees the concrete that was once my flesh. He sees the red webs inside. Knows their intricate design. Knows the elusive spider. Knows him by name. The red handkerchief in his suit pocket glows beneath the bar lights. I don’t even need to speak at all.
“PTs will break you, Ms. Fitch,” he says softly, so impossibly softly the words feel like hands stroking my hair. “They break whoever they touch. Your bank, your bones, your spirit.”