Daylight

Warning: memories of a sibling's suicide and child miscarriage.

I need an opening line; she's not a girl to approach with an empty mind. She's by herself, sipping at the bar. I wonder what she's doing. Grappling with an inner monologue, like me? The bartender splashes an old fashioned with bitters and the barback restocks tequila bottles on the posterior wall. The wall is backlit with warm LED strips, the top shelf especially bright, haloed, small-batch Kentucky bourbons and limited-edition Japanese single malts glowing in sin. She looks far away; is she really here? Or is she elsewhere, rewinding and replaying scenes that catapulted her life in unintended directions? Her stare sifts through the olive brine in her dirty martini.

Hi stranger. What’s in your head? That’s what I’d like to know. Are your thoughts gentle or violent like a storm? I wish I had the courage to ask.

Probably she's waiting for someone to arrive - its seems impossible she'd be anywhere alone. She's beautiful, of course. It's more than that, though. I've only just laid eyes on her, and yet, I'd be profoundly sad if she were to walk out the door. Because already she fills me with intense longing. I would imagine for a long time what it could have been like if I'd only just said hi. She takes the reigns off of limits. She's not just beautiful. She's incredibly rare.

If she's waiting for someone, better to learn innocently now than regret knowing that I lacked the nerve to find out. Go. Seriously, just go. Earn your 'no' - you'll have a lot more respect for yourself later on. It's never worth wondering. It's always worth finding out. It's not that serious. Nothing is.

I lace my fingers on the bar. "Dark n' stormy, please."

"Any preference?" The bartender grunts through a well-groomed beard; he seems the type to pack his straight-edge razor in leather. He sets a highball glass on the oak bar.

"Kraken."

The ginger beer's fizzy and fragrant, imported to increase the price. Over top of it he layers black spice rum. He adds a lime to the rim and the final product reminds me of two bodies that meet but do not mix, like midnight ocean water and silty, glacial runoff.

Two bodies that meet but do not mix. That’s a bad phrase for the circumstance.

"Can I sit?"

Her eyes are devastating; two shotgun blasts to the knees when she peers up from her glass. Jesus Christ, you’re gonna have to crawl out of here on your fucking elbows. Her hair sleek and straight, vantablack, a prison for light, flat-ironed smooth with a middle-part. Her nose a kissing bridge between warm, radiant cheeks.

"You want to sit with me?" she asks, soft and a little dazed.

"Yeah, if you'd like company." I smile. It’s safe. I’m normal. “I thought maybe we could be lonely together.”

"What makes you think I'm lonely?" Her blank face steadfast. Not offended, just curious.

I sit.

"Well, don't take it the wrong way, but I don't think there's a prophecy waiting for you at the bottom of that martini."

She smirks. Good one.

"But also, there's nothing interesting out the window."

She glances: nothing but parked cars and a guy sparking a cigarette. "So?"

There's a moment of pause and I sip.

"Fifteen minutes is a long time to stare at nothing."

Her smirk can go in either direction. It goes the right way.

"So that's how long you've been staring at me? I could've sworn it was longer."

I walked into that. An abashed laugh. "It sounds bad when you say it out loud."

"Can I ask why?" Curious, still.

"It's not fun. Being lonely."

She studies me closely. Face. Shoulders. Hands. "Is that all?" she asks.

Never wonder. Say what you feel. "And you're gorgeous."

She lifts a millimeter, the slightest opening. Her eyes stay on mine, spotlights searching. "That's a little forward, don't you think?"

There's nothing else I can be with you. "That's the direction life's supposed to go, isn't it?"

Something shrinks inside her. Her eyes back in the brine: "I guess." She's sad again. "Some people would rather it go back."

Something happened to her. Something happened to me, too.

"Are any of them happy, you think?

In the booth on the far wall, cushions plush and lights dim, a young girl nestles into the chest of a young man. He wraps his wool trench over both their shoulders. They glide their hands over one another and take turns sipping a shared stout. "Happiness is a luxury that can be taken away." Her smiled pummeled. "It's as much a choice as deciding to be born."

My elbows on the bar. "Are you some people?" I ask.

"I'm Kim. Who are you?"

"Matt." I offer my hand and she shakes it.

"That's funny," she says. "Matt and Kim. I love that duo. They're from Brooklyn, ya know."

"I know; I love them too. What's your favorite song?"

She thinks a moment. "Daylight. Definitely. What's yours?"

"Cameras."

The drink's sharp. Brown sugar and gun smoke.

"So, do you charge forward everywhere you go, Matt?"

I used to. "I don't know. It feels like I've been treading water for a long time."

"That sounds exhausting." There's understanding in her voice. "Is it?"

"Very." I take a long pull, the drink nearly gone. Something snaps. "Actually, that's not true."

She's confused. "What's not true?"

"What I just said." I slosh what remains of the ice. "I've been drowning."

Her eyes float to her lap "Oh." She rotates the martini glass on its edge and bites her lower lip. "I'm sorry to hear that."

There's a burst of noise from the table behind us; a flip card fucked the wager. A group of rowdy men, all crew necks and denim blends, clap backs and boisterously holler. The one dealt the poor draw runs a hand through his hair in amused disbelief. He's on the hook for the next round.

"Me too," she whispers.

I've never learned how to comfort a stranger. That's pathetic; I feel like a stranger to myself.

Why are you sad? I swallow the words before they can escape. You can't ask her that. You can't ask anyone that. God, isn't that what makes it so awful? The isolation? The abandonment? Nobody wants to sit down and talk about your feelings. Because they don't want to hear what you have to say. And they don't want to feel it with you - that's too much damage. The calls stop. The texts, too. Everything slowly, then very quickly disappears.

I'm sure nobody asks her. Nobody asks me. They stay away and then test the waters when enough time's passed, because maybe I've finally become something more manageable. They ask friends of friends how I'm doing. They don't know, either. They gaslight. Revise. Show up publicly for the date circled on their calendars, and show up privately, never, for anything else. They speak in caring voices and want to see how much I remember. Everything. I remember everything.

Be a person. Have some fucking courage.

"Why-"

"This is where my husband asked for a divorce." Kim exhales and rubs her temples. "God, that also sounds bad when you say it out loud." She scoffs in disgust. "You probably think I'm crazy for-"

"My fiancé left me, too."

The olive pick stops in her drink. The noise in the bar still there but somehow muted in the universe we've cast over ourselves. It's heavy in these two chairs.

"Why?"

It's exhausting to carry. And suffocating. I can't do it anymore. I won't. Everywhere I go, a thousand pound vest strapped to my chest. Fifty strips of duct tape smashed across my mouth. I want to breathe.

"My brother took his life two winters ago."

She's the first person who doesn't gasp. Or avert her eyes. Or run away.

"...and I kind of lost hold of everything."

Kim nods gravely. "I'm sorry, Matt. That's dreadful."

Silence between us. Neither knows what to say.

"What was he like?" she asks.

There's a roll of quarters in my throat. Don't do that. You brought it up and now it's yours to finish. I smile the best I can. "He was a really happy guy. He had a huge sense of humor. He loved to make people laugh."

"Either of you need another?" The bartender making rounds.

"Both of us," Kim replies. He nods and starts pouring. "Sorry. Keep going."

"He looked out for me. He had a ton of friends and always shared them." I pause. It's hard to think about. The past tense is cruel. "When we were kids, he and I would put on these little jam sessions in our living room. My parents got me a keyboard for my birthday one year because I wanted to learn to play. So he insisted on getting a saxophone, because there was a dirt cheap one in the music store and he liked how obnoxious he could make it sound. We let it rip. Me hammering awful chords and him wailing on that thing, never read a note in his life."

Kim smiles. "He sounds fun."

"He was."

Silence again.

I go on: "It took a long time for me to accept it. I mean, there was just no sign or indication, I just...I still don't...I don't know."

She puts a hand on my shoulder.

Deep breath. "I asked the police to investigate a break-in. No prints or signs of forced entry. Nothing stolen. I knocked on the neighbor's doors and asked if they'd seen anyone strange in the neighborhood that day or the days prior. Nobody had."

The bartender drops our drinks. I sip and it punches my liver. More glass in my eyes.

"I combed through the texts and notes in his phone. Nothing."

You're slipping.

I asked his friends and coworkers if there'd been any arguments. None that anybody knew of.

That's enough.

"I went through his credit cards - no debts or new medication. No drugs in his house, just a little weed from the dispensary."

Stop it.

My heart beating fast. Breathe.

Her voice soft. "I'm sorry, Matt. That's maddening. Fucking barbaric."

I sigh. "Yeah. I couldn't leave it. Not when the police found searches on his computer about how to do it. Or when my fiancé tried to help me accept the truth. My parents begged me to let him go." My voice trails. "It's so miserable, trading denial for reality."

Kim finds a tissue. "Reality bites."

"Anyway. She left me. It was my fault. She showed a lot of grace." I cross and uncross my arms. I rest my lands in my lap. "It was my fault." I'm suddenly aware of myself again, of how inappropriate this is. I meant to strike a pleasant conversation, and instead I'm trauma dumping on this poor girl. "I'm sorry, Kim, I didn't mean to-"

"I had a miscarriage." Kim wants to breathe too.

A stone tablet pressed to my chest. Ow. That hit me in the strings.

"When?"

Her eyes puffy and red. "Fifteen months ago."

"Did-"

"I almost died. I don't remember much." She wipes her nose, the tissue a wet pulp. "Um, my water broke. We had the bags ready. We did the ride."

It's excruciating. I wish none of it were so.

"We're in the hospital. I'm breathing. Everything's fine..." Her voice bounces down the bricks of a lonely well. So much soul stripped away from her. "...and then it wasn't."

It's heavy.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that." It's not adequate. Nothing is. My turn to be quiet. I give her my hand. "I'm sorry for what you lost."

She continues when she's able, her voice trembling: "Whatever happened and whatever they had to do to save me..."

My chest knotted.

She struggles to get it out. Finally, she does. "...I can't have kids anymore."

Oh, no.

She cries and I hold her. I'm angry. "That's not fair." So fucking angry. "That's not fair what happened to you."

I don't know how many minutes go by. A lot. Kim wipes her face and exhales misery. So much death that comes with living.

Her voice a little steadier. " We had her room all ready for her. At home."

"I'm sure it was lovely."

"Do you want to see?"

"Of course."

She grabs her phone and flips through photographs. Lemon walls and quarter-arc rainbows. Unicorns dashing through puffy clouds. A rotating mobile over the crib with painted, wood figurines.

"My great-grandma made those in Germany."

"They're beautiful."

It's so much damage.

The evening's gone and the night begun. Live music tonight - the local guys playing are setting up speakers and instruments on the platform.

"My heart hurts," Kim whispers.

"Mine too."

"Thanks for looking at the pictures."

"Thanks for showing me."

She huffs. "Sometimes I wish i could just turn my brain off." She looks in my eyes. Plenty of soul left.

"Maybe we should," I reply.

"What do you mean?" She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. "Hey," she calls to the bartender. "Can I get some napkins?" He hands her a stack.

"Well, my heart's shattered. And I haven't been able to think my way out of a single thing. Have you?"

"No." She smiles. It's not right for the world to steal smiles like that.

I lean forward and slap my knees. "So...fuck it."

"Fuck it?"

"Yeah, fuck it. I'm turning it off."

"What do you have if your heart's shattered and your brain's off?" she asks.

"Hmm." I think. Then I smile big. "I have fingertips." I hop from the chair and head toward the kid messing with the speakers.

"Where are you going?"

The guitarists are tuning and the drummer assembling his snares. There's a Yamaha plugged in.

"That yours?" I ask, getting his attention.

"The keyboard? Yeah. What about it?"

"You mind if I play one song?"

He's apprehensive. "Ahh...I don't know, man...we're starting up in a few minutes."

"C'mon, just one. Help me pick a friend up."

"I don't think-"

"Help me pick myself up."

He turns to his mates. "What do you guys th-"

"Round on me. For everyone." Their faces brighten. "Two rounds." Nods of approval.

"Alright, go for it. You know what you're doing?"

"Yeah, I got it." One of them has a laptop plugged into a speaker. "You got Spotify on that?" I ask.

"Yeah, man. What do you need?"

"Throw on 'Daylight' by Matt and Kim. Keep it, like, forty percent, maybe." I pull the sheet music up on my phone.

"Mind if I thump with you?" The drummer's set up.

"Yeah, def." I hit the the power button and the source glows. I dash a quick scale on no volume and slide the microphone to my mouth.

"Hey." There's maybe thirty people in the bar. Most of them look. The sound's a little boomy. I move back a few inches. Better.

"This is for everyone having a bad day." A few glasses raised. "And for everyone having a shitty life."

"Yeah!" "Right on!" "All of us, bro!"

I turn to the guy hovering his finger over the button. "Play."

The instrumental takes off, bright and chaotic. The drummer pounds a big, stomping beat. Notes fly across my tiny phone screen; I miss the first measure and launch into the second. Thank god it's D major - I don't know much else. I lean into the mic. The piano's mostly good. The singing is laughable.

"Yeah!" Alright!" Whoo!" More glasses in the air. A smile creeps onto Kim's face.

"Paint em!" "Rip it!" Yeah!" Head nods in the bar. They slow to a gather.

The lead guitarist joins me in the chorus. He's got fucking pipes - youth's not to be abandoned. Kim's gushing, laughing, her face red.

"Yeah!" "Brooklyn, baby!" "Go!"

My fingers fly. I stack chords on top of chords. The keyboardist colors with synth.

I yell to Kim: "C'MON! YOU'VE GOT LUNGS DON'T YOU?" She sings so loud. The bar roars. I fucking love New York City.

On the platform we kiss. "Lips too," I tell her. "You still have lips."

I love you Morgan. Wherever you are.