A conversation.

It’s 8:30 pm on a Tuesday. It’s a different kind of Tuesday - and I say that because it’s the Tuesday before Christmas Eve suddenly making this day not feel like every other mundane weekday, but one that’s infused with emotion. Hyper. Almost tense but in a good way.

The bar at the Rex is astir. A local favourite among Welland’s watering holes and pizza ovens, conceived from sweet love in the 1960s.

I’m sitting at the bar on one of those tall stools, with a leather cushion and brass buttons. My eyes are heavy and I feel warm inside. Insulated by the numbing buzz of Frangelico. “Frangelico, I love you,” I whisper to myself. I hold up my tumbler and whisper again, “Frangelico... I love you” puckering my lips and kissing the rim, as if we’re the only lonely in the room. Me and my liqueur in good company.

And we are in good company. Just waiting.

Finally he’s out of the bathroom and I see him from across the way, emerging from the hall. Look at him, so sharp in that button-down, in those jeans. He stops and says hi to an old friend. I can’t quite hear what he’s saying, but I bet it has something to do with the ponies on TV. About Blind Magic and Lucky Number Nine. “Beautiful breeds. I gotta dime and a half on this race,” I imagine him saying with that accent of his. That working class accent that makes me feel as warm as the Frangelico.

I love seeing him smile. I love the corners of his eyes, and how the lowlights above the bar glint in the center of his pupil. A twinkle. And then another. I can drown in those sad blue eyes.

Side by side, our arms brush against each other. Our elbows resting on the bar. Manners are not an issue with my man, and that’s only the base of the iceberg when it comes to why I love him. It’s actually below the base... it’s that deathly frozen part submerged miles deep within the sea. The sea, like the color of his eyes. You can just trust a person's eyes.

Bella Donna is playing on the juke box and all I’m wondering is when he’s finally going to talk to me about what he wanted to talk to me about. ANd what did he want to talk to me about? This is not usually how it goes. Usually I talk. He listens. I talk. He dreams. I talk. And he remembers.

But quiet he remains. Until...

“Eh, one more,” he says to the bartender, and nods to something 40 %. He never really knows when I’m drunk, but I’m drunk. And at this point I just like sitting with him. Feeling the warmth radiate from his skin, smelling the tobacco and the whiskey seeping from every pore on his five oclock shadow. If there was one scent that reminds me of him it’s tobacco and whiskey... And olive oil. Three scents.

And in that moment I become overwhelmingly sad at the realization that I might not be able to sit next to him like this again. No. That one day there will be a time where we won’t be able to sit together like this and just exist together. Breathing the same breath, feeling the same warmth, sharing the same drink. Same blood. Same body.

And then he turns to me and sees my tears. Sees my tears streaming down my cheeks, which are swelling up from the salt, and I look like a kid again. Mascara watering from my bottom eyelashes, melting away any attempt I made at womanhood.

He’s sad because I’m sad. And he knows why I’m sad without even asking, I can tell. Because I’m always sad about this. Since we both lost someone, we carry around this overwhelming fear that another person we love the most will leave too and never come back. We carry it in our heart - a ball and chain wrapped around the organ weighting us down. Our very own internal jail cell holding us captive, punishing past decisions.

“Dad,” I say, “You’re my best friend.”

And then he turns to me. He nods.

“You should go,” he says. “I think you should go.”

And that’s it. He holds up his glass as if to say, don’t beat yourself up kid. I clink mine with his and take a drink. A little pours down from the corner of my mouth, but I’m numb to the burn. The next time I drink I’ll be alone in New York.

xoLo

Christmas tradition: Violent films.