The Matches

The ice is white and opaque on the surface, like packed snow floating in my whiskey. Harsh as life. As the blunt and final chance she gave me.

It’s transparent where it meets the honey-colored liquid. Like a promise of soothing heat down my throat. A devil’s promise that’s most attractive just because it’s true. At a cost.

My heart starts to pound.

She must be waiting for me to call. She’s warned me. And this time she means it.

“Road’s closed till tomorrow,” the barman announces.

Murmurs rise around the room, broken now and then by complaints and curses. Around me, twelve people are gathered, taking shelter from the storm.

A guy to my left turns and hits my arm with his elbow.

“Sorry, buddy.”

Stupid jerk. I look at him and nod.

The sounds fade and the ice cracks in the glass. My mouth waters and my heartbeat thunders in my ears. I lift my shaking hand toward the glass.

“Road’s closed till tomorrow,” the barman announces.

Murmurs rise around the room.

I feel like I’ve been through this before. I glance at my watch. 8:41 pm. A long time until tomorrow.

I miss her. Not who she is now. The one she was when I was me.

The whiskey waits on the counter. Calm and beautiful as an opal.

A match lies next to the glass.

I frown. When did that get there?

I take the match from the counter. It looks like any other match. Just like the ones in my pocket. I put it back.

Someone is talking on the phone. Loudly.

—Hello? Can you hear me?

My hand shakes. It touches the cold glass. The ice swings and clinks. The rest of the sounds fade. My mouth waters again. I grab the glass.

“Sorry, buddy,” said the man to my left.

“Watch out, dude!”

I am about to hit him, but the déjà vu hits me again. Even my own voice sounds strange. The match next to my glass has vanished. I must have nudged it to the floor.

I can’t help but check my watch again. 8:44 pm. I turn around. Everything looks normal.

The barman is cleaning the counter with a grey rag. It doesn’t look nearly as clean as I’d like.

Two matches lie beside the glass now. They are aligned. Both unused. I look at the barman with the matches in my hand. He is serving a woman in the corner. She laughs openly, and the world becomes a better place. She’s beautiful. She reminds me of her, the way she was when we first met. I have spoiled her life now. And mine too.

My eyes return to the glass. I place the matches back. The ice is forming a thin layer of water on the surface of the amber liquor.

BANG! Snooker balls crack through the hum of the room as a new game starts on the table behind me.

I touch the glass quickly, just for a moment. Then I pull my hand back, as if it burned. All I get is a weird look from the barman. I shrug and keep my fingers on the glass a moment longer.

I can feel the cold in my fingertips. And the warmth in my throat. The whole room blurs around me. I lift the glass.

—Hello? Can you hear me?

The same voice on the phone.

The same words.

Only one match on the counter.

The whiskey sits untouched.

Someone is playing with me.

My hand trembles on the counter, but this time it feels different. There are three matches perfectly lined up next to the glass.

A stool scrapes to my right. Someone sits, and the smell of tobacco reaches my nostrils.

I need a cigarette. And I need it now. I try not to look at the whiskey again.

I start sweating. A cold, uncomfortable sweat. She used to take care of me when this happened. I used to get aggressive when it did.

She’s not here now. And she might not be anymore. But only whiskey can stop this feeling. And the bottles behind the counter look just as tempting.

My heart keeps pounding. I reach for the glass, trying not to look at it. Testing it slowly with my hand as I turn away. As if it stank. It doesn’t.

I am looking at the glass again and watching as the ice melts into a thin layer of water on the surface of the whiskey.

BANG! I jump as a new game starts on the snooker table behind me.

Two matches.

I look to both sides. No one is holding a match in their hand. There’s no other match on the counter but mine. No box of matches either. And none is on the floor beneath me.

When I look again, there are four.

The matches form a square now.

It looks too neat. Too deliberate. Almost like a children’s game.

“Enough! This is it!” I yell.

Only the music keeps playing, ignoring my demand.

The barman comes closer. A closed bottle of beer in his hand.

“Sir, you need to calm down before this becomes a problem,” he says.

He grips the bottle by the neck. As if it were more than just a drink. His eyes tell me he is not joking.

So that’s it, Delirium.

It wasn’t supposed to happen after thirteen days sober. If there was anything I ever feared, this was it.

Not my liver. Not my family. Not even her. Nothing had ever kept me away for too long.

Only one sip could save me now. The barman looks directly at me as I lift my glass.

A stool scrapes to my right again.

Again?

The blonde next to me grips her tequila harder than I expected.

I hold mine. Three matches.

I need a gulp.

The woman in the corner laughs and my rush suddenly disappears. That’s what made me fall in love with my wife. The world around her always shone.

Two matches.

My lips touch the rim of the glass and the smell of whiskey fills my lungs.

The guy to my left hits me with his elbow.

“Sorry, buddy.”

Heat rises in my face.

I can picture the barman gripping a bottle by the neck.

The matches are gone.

I walk away from the counter.

My sight blurs. A beautiful smile.

A lighter in a woman’s hand.

The barman.

Seven matches.

The square has a cross in it. Two other matches lie beside it.

I nudge the drink aside. The barman is still staring at me.

“A bottle of water,” I say.

I push the whiskey away with my fingertips.

The blonde next to me lays a cigarette next to my matches.

“I took you a while to get it,” she says.

I glance at my watch.

8:40 pm.

The ice is white and opaque on the surface.