Not Anymore

The notes of the song ping hollowly through the smoke-filled air -- each note more adamant to stand alone. They would be the sole entertainers if not for the violent rapping of the wind on our fragile door.

On the far end of the bar, one of the regulars sit. His eyes are unfocused but gazing in my general direction. If not for his lit cigarette, I'd think he's a stiff corpse. We've shared a few words. I think he's a contractor. Maybe a baker now that I think about it.

He knows that I don't belong here.

Hunching over in my seat, I draw my attention back to my book. It's getting hard to focus. The cold is seeping through the walls and biting violently at my fingers. The warmth from a sip of coffee is enough to tide me over for the next five minutes.

It's cold -- absolutely frigid -- but there's no snow. Back home it would have started snowing by now. Now doubt, if I weren't half a world away, I would be sitting around a dinner table with my friends, probably complaining about the weather. Kimberly would be the first one to bring up Global Warming.

A smile tugs at my lips.

I've been to Kimberly's so many times that her living room is etching into the back of my eyelids.

As much as I can envision that small fireplace, the crackling flames within don't warm me. I wrap a scarf around myself, but it does little to chase away the bitter cold burrowing deep into my bones.

All my senses reach out, yearning to be embraced by the seasonal smell of cinnamon and pine-leaves, but they can't seem to win against the ongoing battle with the tobacco-laced air.

The regular takes another drag and blinks. Good. He's still alive.

I really want to close up early, but that would mean going home. I love my cousins -- really love them -- but I'm more an alien to them than a cousin. I know they're confused why I can't have a fluent conversation in my Mama's native language.

They know that I don't belong.

I stare at the page in front of me with contempt. The foreign text is painful enough, but the Cyrillic lettering just adds insult to injury. The language is right there -- so close and so far away.

The door slams open, freezing wind brutally enveloping me.

"What did I tell you?"

I perk up having heard that familiar American accent. I stop myself from jumping up from my seat and hugging the stranger. It's an accent I haven't heard since I traded my home for Mama's.

Three men all stumble through the door, decked in the brightest and puffiest winter coats I've ever seen. One knocks his boots uselessly against the wall. The other adjusts his reindeer antlers.

"I stopped listening two hours ago." This one's British. "You know, around the time you screwed us over."

The American rolls his eyes and trudges over to the bar. "Dan, ask if she speaks English."

The quiet one, Dan, glares at the American. He shucks off his coat and takes the time to readjust his hair. In between the awkward silence I could tell them that I understand, but instead I just sit there, waiting.

Dan leans over the American. "Uh, izvinite... uh... engleski?"

I smile. "Yes, I speak English."

"Thank God!" The American throws his head back. "Get this guy the most girly drink you've got."

I cock my eyebrow. "We don't really do that here."

"You don't mix drinks?" I suppress a laugh when the American cocks an eyebrow in response.

"I think I have the ingredients to make a Screwdriver."

The American looks at me, lips pressed into a thin line. Finally he shrugs. "That'll do."

"Ha. Joke's on you." The British man plopped down next to the American. "I happen to thoroughly enjoy my Screwdrivers."

"Make that two." Dan joins the two at the bar.

"What the hell, man?"

"This is the first drink I've had all evening. Sue me."

"If things had gone as I planned, we'd be sauced by now." The British man shrugs.

"Don't even start."

"What are you all doing out this far east?" The question was one of the many I desperately need an answer to. I place the glasses in front of the two men, just barely glancing at them.

"Not you too!" The American presses his head to the wooden countertop, body deflating and molding into the chair.

"Whelp." The British man shifts and stretches his arms behind him until I hear a crack. "We're on a holiday pub crawl." He motions toward his antlers before rolling his eyes. "If that's what you could even call it."

"Uh, Belgrade probably has better holiday pub crawls than out here." I tilt my head to the side.

"Where do you think we came from?"

I pause and look them up and down. Look at that. They didn't wait for an email from a family member -- they came here voluntarily. A hollow pain flitters through my chest.

"Keenan kind of kidnapped us." Dan rests his chin in his palm, entranced by the drink in front of him.

"Drama queen." The American, Keenan, barely raises his head.

"You, and I quote, commandeered the vehicle." The Brit uses finger quotes. As sarcastic as that sign was, it was no way near the sarcasm coating his words.

"And I'm commandeering this drink." He swoops in and plucks the drink from the Brit's hand, who watches with an unimpressed glare.

Before he can take a sip, the Brit steals it back. "I never want to hear that word ever again."

"Jesse thought it would be a nice sendoff. The pub crawl." Dan is there but his mind is miles away.

"It would have been." Jesse swings the drink back. "How about another one? Don't look at me like that, Keenan. So -- wait, where was I? Oh. I rented this bus--"

"A total deathtrap."

"Only when you're driving. Anyway, we were on our way to pick up some other guys when this wanker went completely mental."

"You had no idea where you were going. I was helping."

"I wanted to know if I should turn right or left. That wasn't an invitation to take over." Jesse sits forward, leaning on his elbows. "Anyway, he just kept driving, only stopping when the damn bus completely broke down."

Keenan's eyes are briefly veiled with exhaustion, Dan is hiding most of his face in his hands, and Jesse sits unmoved. If the bus didn't break down, would they have kept driving?

"What was running through your idiotic brain?" Jesse sounds angry, no -- frustrated.

"I don't know, man. I just -- sitting in that bus made me realise that this is the last hurrah."

"What are you talking about?" Dan's peering through his fingers, voice tired now.

"I don't know, but I came to Europe to--" He gestures vaguely with his hands. I can't even guess what he's trying to say. "Two months later and I'm in Belgrade, ready to say goodbye to some of the best guys I've ever known. And who knows when we'll see each other again? You're somewhere in Bonkersville, England, and Dan's--" He pauses and frowns. "Actually, I don't know where Dan is from."

"Canada."

"Oh, well, somewhere remote, right?"

"Moncton?"

Keenan gestures to Dan. "Exactly. We'll never have this again -- the three of us."

"This is what this is about?" Jesse is beyond keeping his voice down. The regular looks up and takes a slow drag of his cigarette. "Mate, we could have had this conversation back in Belgrade before we hopped on the bus!"

"Then we never would have found this place." Keenan spread his arms out widely, almost knocking Jesse off his seat. He nods towards Jesse's empty glass and smiles at me. "Can I have one of those bad boys?"

Dan shoots up from his seat. "Don't give him one. You--" He points at Keenan with fire in his eyes. I'm tempted to turn my attention somewhere else. "My friend, don't deserve to drink." But, I'm also tempted to see my way through this conversation. "You kidnapped us, drove us all the way out here, and all only to avoid saying goodbye? No, no drink for you."

"Sorry."

Gentle and smooth notes dance through the lull in the conversation. This song is familiar. It embraces me like a sturdy hug, squeezing the air out of my lungs.

Mama used to sing to this.

"You're a pain in my behind." Jesse taps Keenan's shoulder with his own. "Of course I'll miss you. And who the hell cares if we even see each other again? Wasn't it good while it lasted?"

I turn my focus to my books, fingers skimming over the Cyrillic text, very much like I did when I was a child. Mama would watch over my shoulder, eyes narrow and focused. I should have seen it as something she was sharing instead of a very specific torture technique.

"You're sounding way too sentimental."

"Sorry. Next time I'll just kidnap you and drive you off to God-knows-where. That's definitely a sane way of dealing with an inevitable goodbye. My mistake."

I went out of my way to avoid communicating in her native language. I don't even know what I was so afraid of. The kids of my neighbourhood didn't care, many of them immigrants themselves.

I hang my head.

"Is there a mechanic somewhere nearby?" When I look up, Dan's leaning over the counter, his eyes focused on my forehead.

I stumble over my words as I try to rack my brain for an answer. I'm pretty sure there is one, but now I can't remember his name or how to reach him.

"Uh." I pull out my phone, hoping there's a miracle answer somewhere there. I should know this. Why don't I know this?

I definitely don't belong here.

"Da." His voice makes me freeze. Very slowly, I raise my eyes to meet his. The regular takes a long and unimpressed drag of his cigarette. "I am."

The three foreigners share a genuinely confused expression. Maybe they didn't notice him there.

Keenan responds with a quiet "cool".

"Can you help us with the bus?"

"Show me." The regular slowly rises, cigarette dangling from his lips.

The three men figure out very quickly that he's waiting for them and hurry to put on their coats, but he's out the door before they can even follow.

"Thanks for the drinks." Jesse places the money on the bar and winks before following the regular out the door.

"Have a good one." Dan disappears next.

Keenan is zipping up his coat -- very slowly. He ducks his head and shuffles his feet, something still weighing heavily on his mind. When our eyes meet, I'm attacked by a brutal wave of numbness. Fingers run down from my aching chest to my cold fingertips -- the embrace of a sort of mutual heartbreak.

"Happy holidays." Keenan salutes me.

"Have a safe trip."

He shuts the door behind him, cold air settling around me like a familiar cocoon. Putting on my scarf, I look down at my textbook, cold fingers still set on skimming over the Cyrillic words. They are on the page in front of me but miles away from my mouth.

I don't belong here. Not anymore.

The music is exhausting -- each note begging to stand on its own. They clash with one another, rebelling against conforming to a fluid melody. The only other noise is the insistent wind knocking violently against the fragile door.