The Midnight Oil

Ethan stood behind the bar, polishing a wine glass to a spotless sheen. The buzzing drone of the neon sign at the door, a sound ordinarily swallowed by the din of raucous conversation and laughter, carried tonight above the hushed murmurs of conversation and the sharp clank of mugs set to the table. Of the two billiards tables—ordinarily mobbed with tipsy players who leaned on pool cues for support—one sat empty, its balls neatly racked. Darts were arrayed in even rows beneath the dartboards; four patrons sat at the bar, spaced like men at urinals.

The Midnight Oil was quiet for a Sunday evening, but Ethan blamed the dreary rain that brought dreary spirits.

A bell rang—the door’s chime. Ethan’s gaze jumped to a familiar figure entering the bar. She moved with a grace that seemed to cut through the haze of cigarette smoke and dim lighting—a grace he knew all too well. Her name was Clara, and as she approached the bar, Ethan was transfixed by the whirling eddies of smoke she left in her wake. Tonight, though, her pattern had changed: Clara wasn't alone. Beside her was a young man Ethan had never seen before, his arm resting lightly on her lower back.

As they approached the bar, Ethan's practiced smile didn't falter, but his mind raced with questions. Who was this man? A younger brother? A friend? Something more? The possibilities swirled through his mind.

“Evening, Clara—what can I get for you?”

“It’s like I was saying, honey,” she said to the man at her back, “how nice it is to go to a bar where the staff know your name.” Clara met Ethan’s eyes. “This here is my husband Isaac—and your name was… sorry, you guys don’t exactly wear nametags.”

“Ethan,” said the bartender, nearly choking on the word. How many times had Clara said his name—called it out in midnight embrace? Now, she denied it all, and it was as though she took those memories away with that denial.

Ethan's heart sank.

The realization that he was the other man, an unwitting participant in Clara's infidelity, was a weight he wasn't prepared to bear. Sure, he’d always had his suspicions: Clara had been cagey about revealing any details about her personal life. But still, somehow, he’d begun to trust her. That trust withered to ash now. The look in her eyes was pleading, desperate. Ethan was so transfixed by that gaze—measuring the very real shame it held—that it took him a moment to recognize the soft hand extended across the bar.

“It’s nice to meet you, Isaac,” Ethan lied. There was a firmness to the young man’s grip. Isaac’s naïve smile offered nothing but warmth—Ethan pitied the man’s obliviousness. How could he not see the moment’s obvious undertones? But then again, Ethan acknowledged, he himself had been unaware of Clara’s equally-obvious secret… how often the heart blinds itself to what it can’t bear to see.

Ethan knew that, if he stood too long, he’d shatter like a dropped beer stein. And so his hands began to move on bartender autopilot. His fist closed reassuringly around cold glass. A bottle was hoisted with flourish and tipped into two shot glasses, bubbling as it poured.

“I’ve got some exciting news,” Clara said to her husband, sliding him one of the shots. “I finally had that talk with Jacobson—no more late nights working on contracts!”

Late nights… Clara had always showed up around 5:30, like any of the rest of the after-work drinking crowd. Ethan turned to buff at the liquor bottles to hide the wince he wore.

“Honey, that is wonderful news,” Isaac agreed, picking up one of the shots. He squeezed her arm with his free hand. “You know I never complained, but dinners alone were getting a bit tiresome. How lovely it’ll be to have you back.”

The two clinked glasses and tossed their shots back.

“Mister Ethan,” Isaac said with a satisfied sigh, “you seem to know your customers well—Clara never ordered, and yet you pour her favorite.”

“Like I said, I come here often for a nightcap as Jacobson and I finish our document work. Whenever we finish a particularly tough case, I always ordered our favorite Añejo to celebrate.” Her eyes locked to Ethan, and her expression was almost more prayer than plea.

Ethan felt all the power pool into his next words… a single, simple denial, and he could break the illusion, and rend an entire marriage with it. The affable, if clueless Isaac didn’t deserve such betrayal—as far as Ethan knew, at least. But conversations have beats to them, and as the rhythm shifted to Ethan, it was far easier to go with the flow than it was to upset it:

“Your favorite Añejo,” Ethan said, doing his best to put on a wry smile. “I see the way Jacobson’s face wrinkles with those shots… he’s probably less fond of her choice.”

Clara’s eyes widened—was it surprise that he would confirm her lie?

"So people sit here and drink, and in their drinking, they become their truer selves,” Isaac began. “Walls go down, inhibitions retreat. I have to imagine a bartender’s view is fascinating... right in the center of it all: you see the clumsy romantic passes and the loud jests. I’d bet it’s surprising, what you can learn when you just pay attention."

“Some people forget we’re here,” Ethan replied. “It’s like we’re part of the bar furniture. And you’re right—The Midnight Oil has its share of stories.”

“I’d bet it does—and that makes you the keeper of those stories,” Isaac added.

“But Ethan’s never been a gossip,” Clara said. “I barely hear him utter a word about other customers.”

“That’s because the bartender knows his business,” Isaac agreed. “What folks get up to in their private hours is for no one else to know.”

Ethan squirmed; the irony was intolerable. Again, by nervous reflex, Ethan found himself pouring a round of shots. “This one on the house,” he squeaked, as neither had asked for more.

“I don’t recognize the bottle,” Clara noted. “What is it?”

“A raspberry liqueur from France—a light, fruity thing. Not too sweet.”

The couple clinked shot glasses and tossed back the next round.

“Wow, that went down easy,” Clara observed.

“And yet, what a shot,” Isaac said. “I think I tasted a note of vanilla, of blackberry… and then that steady warmth you feel as it goes down—most of the joy of a good shot is that warmth.”

Ethan, too, felt the rising of warmth in his stomach, but his was a blossoming shame at not only keeping Clara’s secret, but also confirming Clara’s lie. Before, he’d been innocent; now, by playing into her alibi with Jacobson, Ethan shared some modicum of culpability. It was that rising shame that drove his tongue to reckless course: “So, with your contract work shifting, does that mean we at The Midnight Oil will be seeing you less?”

“Oh, afraid to lose a generous tipper, are we?” Clara asked, a teasing note in her voice. It was another slap to the face, a reduction of all that they’d shared to something purely transactional, impassive. For her, he supposed, perhaps that’s all it ever had been.

“It’s more the conversation I’ll miss, for a lonely night like tonight,” Ethan admitted honestly.

“I’ll still drag her out here every now and again,” Isaac said. “And what a dragging tonight it was—your regular customer here was adamant about going to Koffer’s instead.”

“It’s like I said,” Clara pouted, “you know how I hate driving out in the rain. And besides, Koffer’s does the buy-two-get-one margs after 8.”

Ethan watched the couple meet eyes, and he could see the battle lines of an earlier argument. It seemed that somehow, Isaac had won out, and Clara could hardly protest too fervently without giving up some of her secret.

“Which is why I offered to drive—and with the month we’ve both had at work last month, we’re hardly pinching pennies looking for bargains on drinks.” Isaac pointed at the empty shot glasses and issued Ethan a warm smile, the type that said another round, please.

Ethan shrugged: three in so short a time was probably not wise, but Ethan hoped that the sooner they drank their fill, the sooner they would leave. He pointed to the bottle of raspberry liqueur, prompting a nod from Isaac.

“I just didn’t see why it had to be here,” Clara said as Ethan poured.

“Nothing has to be anything. But remember Dr. Trainor, ‘marriage means compromising’—meeting your partner half-way. You picked the venue for our last what, dozen date nights? I think it’s only reasonable if I get a say every now and then.”

Clara crossed her arms, clearly still unwilling to cede the point. Ethan squirmed, desperate for an excuse to leave the bickering couple. He let his eyes flit to the other patrons down the bar—their glasses were unfortunately still full.

“Are you married, Mister Ethan?” Ethan turned to see Isaac tip back his next shot and wipe his lips with the back of his arm.

“No sir; never found the time or energy to settle down.”

Isaac smiled. “Some things are worth the time and energy they take.”

“If you two will excuse me,” Ethan all but blurted, “I’m off to the restroom—be right back.”

Watery legs carried Ethan through hallways that seemed to turn as he stumbled to his reprieve. Once inside the cramped men’s room, his nose twitched in the stale air. He made a mental note to send Marcus to freshen the place up. He didn’t actually have to use the facilities, but he knew he couldn’t have spent another minute near the pair without unraveling. Instead, he stood at the sink with his hands gripping its side. He took deep, measured breaths, watching the man in the mirror and trying to will that man to calm. Who was the man looking back at him? Was it Ethan, or was it some adulterer, some liar?

Slowly, but inexorably, calm returned. His breathing leveled, and his hands, once clammy against the porcelain, began to feel less slick. Employees must wash hands before returning to work, the sign read. And so, with relish, Ethan opened the tap and let the warm water surge over his hands.

He scrubbed at them vigorously, as though trying to wash away the sin of infidelity itself. He spread wide his fingers and rubbed at the skin between them; he scrubbed the backs of his hands, the palms, the crook of his thumb.

The door creaked as he finished his handwashing, and in strode Isaac. He smiled at Ethan, as oblivious as ever. And as Ethan met the poor man’s eyes in the mirror, most of Ethan’s reclaimed calm seemed to pour away, retreating down the drain with the bubbly, soapy water.

And yet, here was his chance to truly wash his hands of this whole sordid affair… he spoke before he’d fully made up his mind:

“I actually wanted to tell you something—something important, about Clara.”

“It’s Sarah Jacobson.” Isaac’s reply was flat as the man stood before a urinal, reaching for his zipper.

“I—what?” Ethan asked, confused by the non-sequitur.

“Sarah Jacobson—Clara’s boss. You said how ‘he’ didn’t like Clara’s choice of shot as much as Clara did… Jacobson is a woman.”

Ethan swallowed, nodding. “It’s about that, yeah. I wanted to… I needed to tell you…”

“Did you even hear a word I said since we got here?”

Ethan frowned, falling silent. The bathroom fan rattled; the sink dripped a single droplet into the pattering soap residue; a steady tinkling sound tapered away as Isaac finished his business.

“Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t,” Isaac said with a heavy sigh. He pulled his zipper back up and sidled to the sink beside Ethan’s. He pumped the soap dispenser twice, his palm filling with a squirt of pink liquid. “Nobody wants to feel like the bad guy. In the subtext is accusation… far easier to pay it no mind. We see what we want… we ignore all the rest. God, how favorably people read things when they think they’re being sneaky, when they think they hold a secret.”

“I—so you…” Ethan stared at Isaac’s face, expecting accusation, but seeing only impatience.

“Christ almighty—you’re really gonna make me say it, aren’t you? Practically every sentence out of my mouth has been a different flavor of ‘I know you’ve been sleeping with my wife.’ I knew from the moment she was so insistent on avoiding The Midnight Oil. You’re not the first, you know. Not even the second… she’s got a pattern, which is how I know you would’ve known nothing. They all assure me of that, as though it’ll somehow make me feel better… what it’s really saying is ‘this sin was hers alone, not even something she was talked into, or tempted toward.’ The translation: ‘she who vowed to you, betrayed you—not the stranger.’”

Isaac closed the tap and shook his hands dry. He then reached for the paper towel dispenser and tore a brown sheet, offering Ethan a wan smile. “I don’t blame you… I don’t even blame her—this is who she is.”

“Then why do you put up with it?” Ethan asked, genuinely baffled.

“The answer to that is the simplest answer there is…” Isaac patted at his face with the damp paper towel, and then balled it up and threw it in the trash. He combed his hair with his fingers, brushing a stray, curling lock into place, and then he squared his collar.

“And that answer is…?”

“Because I love her,” he said at last. “And love doesn’t give up.”

“So you blind yourself to how she treats you?” Ethan asked, unbelieving.

“My eyes are wide open, Mr. Ethan. Have a nice night, and please: don’t speak with my wife ever again.”

Jaw hanging agape, Ethan watched him stride back into the bar with shoulders held strangely high. And as the bathroom doors swung shut once again, leaving Ethan alone before the mirror, he made no move to follow: he peered at the bags beneath his eyes, fussed with his hair, and ran fingers over the creases in his shirt—anything to buy a few more moments of precious solitude.

. By the time Ethan returned to his countertop, Isaac and Clara were gone, vanished into the drizzling night. A wad of cash was wedged beneath their twin shot glasses—as Ethan tallied it, he frowned at the overlarge tip.

The register chirped; bills were filed away in their drawers, and still a crisply-folded twenty made its way to the tip jar. Chewing his lip, Ethan looked at the front door, its glass front speckling orange with raindrops in the streetlight.

Out there now was a man who forgave every wrong because of his love... a man who was no doubt now battling the gusts that carried the cold and wet rain beneath umbrellas. For that man, Ethan felt pity.

And yet, as Ethan looked down his sagging bar at the silent drinkers nursing their beers—as he grieved the loss of the only thing close to a relationship he’d had for the past four years—Ethan felt the silence drape back over him like an old, ratty cloak.

Out there now was also a man who had a love that shone so great, he could shrug away any wrong… out there was a man who no doubt now held tight to a warm hand, a touch to make the cold and wet a bit more bearable. For that man, Ethan felt envy.

Conflicted, lonely, betrayed, and forlorn, on that night of dreary weather and dreary spirits, Ethan did the only thing a man in his profession could do: he refilled both shot glasses, downed them in rapid succession, and waited meekly for the drink to dull the pain’s raw edge.