A Smoldered Heart Behind the Crimson Flame

Rainwater drenched the concrete sidewalk, leaving the Main Street of Old Town isolated. Walking alone on Main Street, Martin kills the last of his cigarette and tosses the orange bud on the ground. He reaches into his pocket, grasping a pack of emerald green Newports which felt light in his hand. Flipping the top lid revealed he was down to only two sticks left. Damn, Martin thought, putting the pack back in his pocket.

An old black Honda Civic passes the street, stopping at an intersection with a glowing red light. A black windshield wiper waves across the windshield, pushing water off the screen. The light turns green, and the car drives off leaving Martin to himself.

He walks through the empty street, kicking rain water off the ground with each step he takes. His head and shoulders covered in rain water forces a shiver. The urge to reach for another cigarette stick races through his mind. Hesitant, he stops his pace in front of a Peruvian restaurant, reaching for the pack of Newports. The orange end between his fingertips feels dry. A red neon sign above his head, reading POLLO, illuminates above his head. He contemplates whether he should reach for the lighter in his other pocket. The urge webs and tide like the pull of an ocean current on a sandy beachfront. His hand tremors under the pressure of his anxiety. He drops the stick on the ground, leaving the cigarette behind.

He continues down main street, marching slow with his head down and his hands in his pockets. He encounters the distant sound of music. Soft touches of a saxophone crying to an arpeggio piano tune in the background. He stops and looks up, captured by the bright red neon lights reading; The Crimson Flame. The sad song enters his smoldered heart, promising a remedy for his troubled woes.

Martin enters through the clear front door. The interior was dark with minimal lighting behind the counter with an array of bottles. An old jukebox rests all the way at the end near a hallway, playing music. He looks at the assortment of clear and brown drinks behind the bartender. He sees glimpses of the woman behind the counter. She's middle aged and exhausted, he presumes she's working a long shift. Some open space for unoccupied tallboy tables rest opposite the bar. Martin takes a seat at the first booth in front of him, sitting on a cushioned high wooden stool. The counter itself was wooden too, matching his seat. There's only two other patrons there - a man and a woman encroaching under shadows. The somber jazz music muffles whatever conversation they’re having. The lady behind the counter approaches Martin.

“What can I get you, sweetheart?” she asks.

"Any Absolut? Neat, no ice please."

She reaches behind her for the grey bottle of vodka, pouring the beverage into a small glass cup. Martin watches the drink ascend to about halfway through the cup. The drink is clear like a window, allowing him to see the bottom of the cup rest a shadow on the cardboard coaster.

"You keepin’ the tab open?" she asks.

"Yes," he says. Reaching into his jacket pocket for his wallet, he retrieves a folded $10 bill from his wallet. The bartender moves out of his view to put the money into her register. Martin notices the man standing up, putting on his jacket while the woman remains seated. The man walks away from the girl, turning his back on everyone in the bar. He passes the jukebox and walks down the hallway, a tunnel with an EXIT sign above the opening.

Martin's eyes glances towards the woman, who's now staring at him. Her face cast in shadows, but pausing as she were pondering about him. Half her face lit up by the tungsten lights behind the counter reveals a stark grin. She motions to stand, walking towards him. She must be reaching for the exit behind him, he thought. He watches her approach him as she continues to look over at him with a gentle and familiar smile. Her hair glowed even in the dark, as it was blonde and straight, but something about it seemed artificial to him. Martin knew it wasn't her hair, as if he saw her in her natural form before. She comes in closer, strutting in a slow animation. She reaches his side of the bar, standing over him. "Are you waiting on company?" she asks.

He's stunned. She's beautiful, much like another woman who he once confessed his love to. He remembered her name being Denise. He also remembered she had black curly hair. There was a clear resemblance between this woman and Denise, at least in his mind. They both had tan skin and a small flat mole under the right eyelid that Martin noticed once she was closer. Was this actually her? His mind was racing. He takes a swig of the clear drink, passing the strong alcohol through his body to prepare for what's to come. 

"How are you?" she asks. "My name is Desiree," reaching out to shake his hand. Martin extends his hand with a soft grip, she squeezing his palm more stern compared to his limp grasp. He needs to say something.

"I'm Martin," he said. Silence falls between the two as he conjures other possible replies.

"Mind getting me a drink?" the woman asks.

"Weren't you with that fella earlier?"

"Not at all. I could've been, but he's a cheap bastard." She laughs to herself. "Don't worry about him."

"What exactly is your game here?"

"I can't ask for a drink?" she leans away from him, adding "I only wanted some company, make a new friend. If you're not interested-" she motions to rise from the stool.

"Wait," he extends his arm to touch her, but stops midway. "I'm sorry, I wasn't sure if I was staying much longer is all."

She leans back in towards him again. "If you have somewhere else to be, I'm not trying to hold you up."

"It's alright. I didn't actually have plans." A brief pause. "Are you from around here?"

She has to say yes, Martin thinks to himself.

"No. I'm only visiting, you could say. I'm from Miami."

Her answer stuns him. He notices she hadn’t looked away to think of the response. The urge for another cigarette grew within him.

"Did you still want that drink?"

"Of course," she said, raising her hand to catch the attention of the bartender.

The bartender walks over to them. "What are you getting, honey?" glancing a look of disgust at Martin. He's taken aback by the glance. Desiree deciding on her drink remains oblivious of the spontaneous interaction.

"You know what I’m in the mood for?” Desiree says while looking at Martin, “some sex on the beach."

"Wouldn't we all," the bartender adds in a slight sarcastic tone.

Hell fire brewed in his mind from the onslaught of judgement flaying him like animal hide stripped of its skin. He kills the rest of his glass.

"Did you want another glass, sweetie?" she asks, this time in a smoother tone free of any judgment.

He tosses a twenty for her, in exchange she takes his empty glass and walks away from the two.

"You know," he pauses, "it's funny you say you're from Miami. It tends to be New Yorkers who go to Florida, first to visit and then live there forever. Never the other way around from what I noticed."

"Not at all! Plenty of other people from Florida end up in a lot of other places, including New York, or even Long Island."

"What brings you here then?"

"I'm on something of a vacation tour! Visiting every state each month. I started about a year ago with Georgia, then the Carolinas, the DMV area. Now look, I'm here in Long Island, New York!"

The bartender returns with their drinks, placing the two glasses on top of coasters. His drink was clear and colorless, hers a colorful hue mixed between red and orange. Desiree's glass included a fresh slice of orange and a single round red cherry placed on the rim of her glass. The bartender departs as the two continue their conversation.

"I've been in and out of hotels and motels this past year because of this year-long trip,” Desiree said.

"Are you traveling alone?"

"Yeah. I didn't have much friends or reliable family to come with me."

"You know, you and I are alike. My friends aren't there for me despite being here all my life." Martin spoke these words hoping to provoke a reluctant response from her. She only continued on despite his suspicion. She sips her drink from a yellow plastic straw.

"This last year has been something, but I don't regret it," she says after finishing another sip.

"How are you able to afford this trip?”

"That's the thing..."

"What about it?"

"How interested are you in finding out?"

Martin's eyes wander down at her glass. The orange top of her drink now perished, leaving the red half in the cup left. The cup now looks like it's carrying a cup of pulpy blood.

"What do you mean?" he asks.

She pinches the orange slice off the brim of her cup, bringing it towards her lipstick covered mouth. She takes a soft bite and chews on the fruit.

"I mean, I’m selling wares, but are you interested in buying anything?"

Martin's hand remains on the glass, squeezing it in his hand felt like the glass would begin to shatter. His urge to drink subsided completely for the last cigarette in his pocket.

“Ain’t that drink enough of a purchase for you?”

"What do you think this bar is, Martin? An ordinary dive?"

He pauses, looking down on his drink.

"I don't know. I wanted a drink, so I stopped in."

"Was it only a drink you were looking for?"

"Well, I wanted a cigarette at first, but the rain stopped me. I took a stroll through Old Town to distract myself from even smoking inside."

"But then it stopped raining?" Desiree asks.

"Right, and the walking didn't help. The urge to smoke came back," he sips the glass, hoping his nicotine addiction would wash away.

"And you walked all the way from home in the cold to commit to one bad habit instead of another?"

"If you wanna call it that, sure."

"Then how about we leave this place, putting both of these things behind?" Desiree places her hand on his left forearm.

"And do what?" Martin asks.

"Whatever it is we have to do and end these terrible cycles you go through."

They gaze into each other's eyes. Martin sees in Desiree's face how he last saw Denise. Innocent yet tearful when Martin decided to end their relationship. It fell apart for no real reason, at least not something Martin could remember. For as long as he could look back on his life, a great sensation of dissatisfaction overwhelmed him. Even as a kid, his cycle of mania managed to intrude even on his first love, his first kiss. Denise, like Martin, was also his first love. In turn, he became her first heartbreak. Their history together flashed in his mind like a blinding explosion. All he could feel was regret. Though he tried to clear Denise from his memory, there were some things he couldn't ever forget.

The opportunity arose in him for temporary satisfaction to leave this place with her. Desiree could make her happy, but only for a moment. Much like a drink, or the pull of harsh tobacco coming out a cigarette. A reprise of happiness met by immediate regret if he were to have his night with Desiree. He feels the disappointment in his smoldered heart.

"We can leave now, Martin," she whispers into his ear. Her voice washing away the image of Denise. Martin looking down at his glass, some vodka remaining as he ponders his next choice of words. A momentary silence falls between them, the music stopping to change records in the box. Martin looks at her when the music resumes.

"I'm sorry, but I can't."

"Are you sure?"

They remain silent again for what may have been an entirety. A voice shatters their moment,

"Are you two's done with your drinks?" The Bartender asks them.

"Yes, we're done," Martin says, getting up from the stool and putting his jacket back on.

She takes the glasses, even Desiree's half drunken beverage. "Have a good night then," the bartender says, putting her hand on the counter to pass change for Martin. He rejects it, telling her to keep it.

"Well, Martin. It was good seeing you," Desiree says in a sad tone.

Another man walks in, this time through the rear entrance and taking a seat on the opposite end of where Martin was.

"It was good seeing you too." He turns for the door. Desiree is with the new man when Martin looks behind him after exiting the establishment. He exhales a deep breath of exhaustion, fumes forming out his mouth like cigarette smoke. He reaches into his pocket for the Newports again, sliding the lid open to reveal the final stick in the pack. Holding the orange end between his fingertips, the stick feels dry in his grip. A lighter under the other end, he lights it up ready to smoke it. He turns around again to look at Desiree. 

She and the man are both gone. He turns back to look down at the cigarette. He tosses it on the ground, the sparks popping on the concrete like fireworks hitting the ground. He walks away, leaving the world behind once again.