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Night Life

S.F. Wright

    Monroe was grateful it was Friday. Usually, he read, ordered takeout, and then drank gin and tonic or bourbon and Coke while watching TV. But tonight, after finishing his personal pizza, the idea of drinking alone in his apartment depressed Monroe. He was thirty-seven, had been doing this every weekend for ages, and saw himself doing it for years to come.
    He gargled mouthwash, combed his hair, sprayed on cologne. Then, he put on his jacket and left.

—————

    Walking down the avenue, he had a vague idea of where he was going: a bar he passed on his way home from work.
    A breeze blew. Monroe cupped his hands, lit a cigarette. He hadn’t been out in a while. As the bar appeared, his heart beat fast.
    He heard music playing. He was thinking this was a bad idea when two women entered. A rock song blasted as the door opened, the music became muted again when the door closed.
    He took a last drag from his cigarette, put a Lifesaver into his mouth, and went inside.

—————

    The lighting was dim. Half the tables were occupied, as were many of the bar’s stools. Yes played on the sound system.
    Monroe sat in the last stool. A purse rested in the next one, and a blonde-haired woman sat in the stool next to that one, texting. Monroe watched her for a moment. The woman didn’t look at him. He then affected to study the bottles of gin, vodka, and whiskey behind the bar.
    “What can I get you?”
    The bartender wore a t-shirt with New York City Fire Department stamped across the front, and which showcased his muscular forearms.
    As the bartender made Monroe a vodka and tonic, a woman with dark red hair appeared at the next stool. Monroe could smell her perfume. Her back half turned to him, she looked at her phone while talking to the blonde-haired woman.
    “Three fifty.” The bartender slid a glass of vodka, tonic water, and ice towards Monroe. Beads of condensation ran down the glass’s sides; a thin black straw protruded from the middle; a slice of lime was wedged on the rim. Monroe laid a ten-dollar bill on the bar. He sipped his drink. He tried to listen to what the two women were saying. Casually, he glanced at the redheaded woman. Her ass was shapely, firm.
    The bartender placed a five and two quarters in front of Monroe. Monroe took another sip of his drink. Then, with vague regret, he watched the redheaded woman and her friend leave.

—————

    He drank his vodka and tonic slowly. No one sat in the stools next to him. A few people came in, a few others left. Rock music played. Monroe felt slightly buzzed, but decided he wasn’t getting another drink.
    Then, a young woman sat down in the next stool. She had dark hair. She wore a tight black T-shirt on which was stamped some band’s silkscreened photo, and tight jeans. Tattoos decorated each arm, eight or ten earrings hung in each ear. On the stool next to the woman sat a slender, effete-looking man, who wore a short-sleeved black shirt and—rather incongruously, Monroe thought—a shiny red tie.
    “Another?”
    The bartender stood before Monroe. Monroe hesitated, the woman next to him laughing at something the man in the tie said, before nodding.
    After the bartender made Monroe’s drink and rang him up, the woman asked for two pints of Guinness.
    Sipping his drink, Monroe glanced at the woman; she was absorbed in talking to her friend. Monroe somewhat regretted ordering his drink.
    The bartender brought the pints over. “Eight dollars.”
    Monroe took a long sip. Somewhat buzzed, he watched the woman a bit less furtively.
    Then, as he was about to take another sip, the woman turned and smiled at him.

—————

    Her name was Chelsea. She was as a graphic designer, although she was in between jobs. Her friend—the man with the tie—was Dennis. Chelsea and Monroe talked about the bar’s décor—Monroe much more voluble than normal thanks to the vodka—and then, upon Chelsea’s suggestion (and under the pretense that it was too loud at the bar), they moved to a table. As Monroe, carrying his drink, followed her, a thought grew: he might get laid. As they sat down, he decided that two things had to happen: act assured yet cool, and get rid of Dennis.
    Fortunately, they hadn’t been sitting for five minutes—Chelsea talking to Monroe about a TV show involving vampires; Monroe pretending to be interested, his attention consumed by Chelsea’s eyes, lips, and lavender-scented perfume; Dennis nodding and occasionally contributing to Chelsea’s commentary—when Dennis said he saw someone he knew at the bar. Before disappearing amongst the crowd, he turned and gave Chelsea a knowing smile, which annoyed Monroe. . . yet made him vaguely excited. Chelsea gazed at the bar for a moment, her expression wryly detached; she then resumed describing the burning vampire she’d been telling Monroe about. And as she did so, she briefly, absently—yet tantalizingly—put her hand on Monroe’s thigh, causing a jolt of electricity to course through him.

—————

    He’d drunk four or five vodka and tonics when Chelsea asked if he wanted to go to her place.
    As Monroe followed her, a barrage of thoughts raced through his mind: Who was this girl? Was she crazy? At her place, would. . .?
    Outside, Chelsea asked Monroe where his car was. Monroe blinked. “My car. . . I walked.” He vaguely sensed a reproach.
    But Chelsea shrugged. “All right. We’ll take mine.”
    And Monroe followed her, their hands occasionally brushing.

—————

    Her car smelled of orange air freshener and cigarettes. Monroe realized he didn’t know Chelsea’s last name, where she lived, whom, if anyone, she lived with.
    He hoped she had vodka at her place.
    At a light, Monroe, feeling impetuous and daring, “accidentally” brushed his hand against Chelsea’s. To his surprise, delight, and vague alarm, she took his hand in hers and traced her fingers along his palm. He became vaguely uneasy that he didn’t have any condoms.
    She parked on a block in a neighborhood north of Monroe’s. The area was somewhat seedy. But Monroe was too anxious and excited to heed his surroundings. As he walked with Chelsea up the steps of a multi-family house, his heart beat so fast he thought he could hear it.
    Halfway up a dark staircase, she whispered, “Try to be quiet. I don’t want to wake my father.”
    “Your father?”
    But she either didn’t hear or didn’t feel the need to respond.

—————

    The house reminded Monroe of his grandparents’ home: old furniture, worn carpeting, paneled walls. Chelsea turned on the TV; a home repair show came on. She turned the volume down, said she had to check on her father.
    Despite everything and himself, Monroe felt the urge to leave. He reminded himself that he was going to get laid. Yet he was depressed by this house, the unseen presence of Chelsea’s father (what was wrong with the man?), and the idea of staying the night here.
    He wanted a drink.
    “Hey.”
    He turned; Chelsea was kissing him. Monroe felt like he was in a drunken yet blissful dream. But at the same time, on the fringe of his perception, he felt uncertainty and apprehension. He let her lead him down the hallway. “Try not to make a lot of noise,” she whispered, and shut the door behind them.

—————

    Chelsea was slightly rotund, her breasts full. She was forceful if not aggressive. But except towards the end, she appeared detached, or in a place only she was aware of. Monroe didn’t care—although he did wonder about the ready cache of condoms in her drawer.
    Afterwards, as Chelsea lay against his chest, he wondered if he might not ever see her again after tonight. He felt vaguely sad about the possibility, yet strangely relieved.

—————

    Coughing erupted.
    “Be right back,” Chelsea whispered. Nimbly, she got up, dressed in the dim light provided by the streetlights. As she closed the door behind her, the coughing started again.
    Languorously glancing around, Monroe observed that the room was like a child’s bedroom one had valiantly if unsuccessfully tried to turn into an adult’s room: faded pink carpet; a small desk attached to a bookshelf; pink, yellow, and white floral wallpaper. On one wall hung a framed Degas reprint; Monroe vaguely wondered what the story was behind it. But otherwise, the ambiance of the room was depressing, and once more, Monroe wished he were home.
    He heard muffled speaking. He rested his forearm over his eyes. He didn’t want to wake up here in the morning—and he wondered how he could finesse it so he could leave before then.

—————

    He awoke having to urinate. Chelsea lay next to him, her back to him. Quietly, Monroe got out of bed.
    When he pissed, it sounded loud, as it did when he flushed. As he washed his hands, he thought he heard a thump—but he heard nothing more. Drying his hands, he wondered what time it was.
    He still felt slightly drunk. He was about twenty blocks from home and considered absconding. But first he’d have to get his clothes.
    He shut the light off, opened the door.
    A grizzled man stood in the hallway. He wore an undershirt and boxer shorts and had a three- or four-day beard. His blue eyes looked somewhat opaque. He stared at Monroe with what seemed to be confusion and fear. Monroe, heart racing, forced a smile. “Hi.” He sidled past the man. “I was just—”
    The man brushed past Monroe and went into the bathroom. The lock clicked.
    In Chelsea’s room, he got into bed, slightly less gently than he would’ve had he wanted her to remain asleep. She put her arm across his chest, mumbled what sounded like, “Okay?”
    He rested his head against the pillow. “Your father’s up.” Then he said, “He went into the bathroom.”
    Chelsea rubbed his chest, muttered, “All right.”
    With her lying against him, it was impossible to escape. He should’ve left while he was up; he could’ve dressed quietly enough. Now, he could do nothing but lie there.

—————

    He couldn’t sleep. Occasionally, he’d look at the time on his phone. Fifteen minutes passed, half an hour, an hour. Chelsea’s head rested against his chest, her arm across his stomach.
    At five AM, he was still awake.
    Suddenly, Chelsea rolled over and onto her side, her back facing Monroe. Carefully, he got out of bed. She didn’t stir. Quietly, he put on his jeans, shirt, socks. Then he thought, What if I should stay? Maybe, if I fight this instinct to run. . . Chelsea wasn’t perfect, but. . . If I undress, get back into bed . . .
    She turned, opened her eyes. She looked at Monroe.
    He opened his mouth, no words came.
    She laid her head back down, rested her forearm over her eyes.
    “I . . . I was just—”
    She rolled over onto her side. “Just make sure you lock the door.” Her voice sounded muffled, far away.
    He vaguely felt he could fix this. It could be all right if he just got back into bed. Yet another part of him. . .
    He buttoned his shirt, put on his shoes.
    In the hallway, he could faintly hear Chelsea’s father’s snoring.
    Outside, it was cool. He walked quickly; when he reached the end of Chelsea’s block, he told himself he could still call her. He’d tell her he’d made a mistake. The fact that this option was there—or that he believed it was—allayed something.
    Soon, he was halfway home. A passing car honked; Monroe wondered if it was somebody he knew. But the thought faded as the car disappeared down the avenue.

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