There Are Rules for Lovers

Time was running out.

He could feel the little hairs prickling on the back of his neck, could feel his heart starting to ramp up, as if he were on his mark at the start of a race. Waiting for the pistol to go boom.

The clock was ticking. Every time he looked at the face, it seemed that the minute hand was rushing him. Or mocking him. He didn’t know which one was worse.

Nobody around him seemed to realize what he was going through. The sweat on his brow. His wet palms. He took a swig of his beer in an effort to calm himself. He closed his eyes, remembered the concept of breathing in for four, out for four…

Damn, that wasn’t working. Should have worked.

He dragged his palms along his thighs. He checked the clock again. In just a few minutes, it would all be over. Why did he always do this? Why did he wait until the last possible second to make his move?

Maybe he ought to just give up. Call it a day, or night, since it was 1:57. Call it and go home alone.

To his grungy little apartment in the sad little building on the corner of a block that faced the train tracks in this dumpy little town.

Get up the nerve or go home lonely again.

Get up the nerve, man, or go home to an apartment the smelled of sadness and lemon Pledge.

He gazed around the room at the other losers. No, that was harsh. "Lonely hearts" was a better term. Lonely souls who were gathered around the hearth of the bar for warmth—not literal but emotional. For a connection. That was the only reason they were all here instead of drinking alone.

Some sort of semblance of a potential—perhaps wannabe—connection.

The bar was the type of corner joint that has existed since there were bars and corner joints. Dark wood paneling. A few booths. Stools that had seen better decades. The lighting was intentionally dim. The photos on the walls were of heydays, glory days, that nobody remembered anymore. The grandfather of the owner’s graduation day. The winning game from 1933.

He looked at the clock. He couldn’t stop the ticking. He couldn’t stand the ticking.

There was a jukebox winding down for the evening. Playing one last standard. Two people were leaning against each other more than dancing. They were upright, grinding a little bit, it felt voyeuristic to watch them. But he watched them. The man brushed a curl away from the woman’s shoulder, and then leaned down to kiss her. She shivered and tilted her head up as he cradled her jaw and then met her lips with his.

He remembered kissing.

It hadn’t been that long ago since he and Chelsea had come here together. Chosen their song. Danced body to body on the worn parquet floors. And now Chelsea was somewhere else, dancing with someone else, and he’d come back to “their spot” for the first time, with hopes and dreams.

He hadn’t predicted how being here would affect him. What’s a bar but a bar? What’s a beer between friends? What does it matter if he wasn’t doing the routine that they had honed over their time together. The way they’d banter and tease. Who owed who a drink? Who owed who a kiss?

She’d left him two years ago, and he hadn’t set foot in the place since. Because she’d taken him here to end it. Serious as they sat in “their” booth. Her face pale as she told him she’d fallen in love with someone else.

How does that happen? He couldn’t understand, not even as the jukebox played sad song after sad song. How could you fall in love when you already were in love?

He’d moved out that night, even though she’d said he could take his time. Boxes, hefty bags, slept in his office. She’d cried when she’d told him, and that didn’t matter. All he'd heard was no. All he'd felt was done.

Two years, not even really thinking. He went to his job. He went to his house. He must have eaten something. He must have had a drink. He found out he’d bought a bicycle. He rode until his entire body ached. He could only fall asleep when exhaustion overtook him. He’d never been in bad shape, but now he was lean and hard. He’d never thought much about his physique, but now it was solid.

And at some point, he’d found himself remembering this woman. The bartender who maybe had always looked at him in a way that he hadn’t let himself ponder. Or act on. Because he’d been in love, and there are rules for lovers.

Sometimes there is a heat between two people and due to circumstances, nothing happens. He thought this was the main reason why he’d been decimated by the break-up. She’d broken the rules.

There was nothing to stop him now.

Except the ticking clock.

He stared at the bartender with the pretty eyes and the golden freckles. He’d understood from the start that they’d had a connection and not simply the friendly banter of customer and beauty. When he’d walked in this evening, she’d lit up. When he’d ordered, she’d given him the drink on the house. When she’d had a moment, she’d stood in front of him and coaxed him into telling her the bare bones of the break-up.

There’d been a current before.

Now, there was a fire.

He took a breath. She’d just said "last call." Her eyes were on him.

He thought of the time when he'd been dancing with Chelsea when he’d accidentally locked eyes with this woman. He thought of the times when she’d hand him his change and there would be a jolt when their fingertips touched. All of the times melted together—and he realized maybe he’d been so decimated by the break-up because of the wrong reasons, and maybe just maybe he’d wanted an out, too, but he hadn’t been able to face that fact. Hadn’t been able to put the information together.

She said “last call” softer when she approached him.

Time was ticking.

He put his hand on the bar palm-side up and she put one of her hands on his palm down, and he said, “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here…” and she said, “That’s my line…” And he said, “Do you want to come home with me?”

And the seconds clicked slowly, and she gave him a smile, and for once in his life, time was on his side.