Birthday, Fear and Marriage

“A toast!” she exclaimed, holding up her shot, waiting for the others to follow suit. The two men held up their drinks, clinking and laughing.

“Happy Birthday! she yelled unusually loud; I’m sure the whole bar heard her.

The birthday man had the biggest smile, looking happy, appreciative, nostalgic if nostalgic had a look. He had his head cocked to one side, his whole face lit up but his eyes. His eyes were deep and distant.

The small bistro table reached up to their chests. Even though the bar was dimly lit, displaying the usual neon beer signs and overhead Pabst blue ribbon bar lights, I could still see her cheery outfit: a green sequence top, black jeans, and sandals. She had on those antenna headbands sporting springy shamrocks. They bounced around on her head as she talked and laughed. She looked cute for the beginning of spring and St. Patrick’s Day and that thought sent an electrifying pang through me. The guys beside her had green t-shirts, a typical guy effort. The rest of the bar was a steady buzz of clinking, laughter, and the occasional loud outburst of people becoming intoxicated.

“I’ll be right back!” said the girl’s voice enthusiastically as she hopped down from her seat and headed towards the lady’s room. Her blouse reflected the lighting, and she appeared to glide away, her long dark hair trailing behind.

The guys chopped it up, patting each other on the back and carrying on like teens. Brothers? Or father and son? I couldn’t recall, but they looked slightly alike. Then, I remembered that the big guy had an older brother, so this one must have been his son.

“I got another round!” the girl in green declares excitedly. She puts down three green beer mugs and returns to retrieve three shot glasses. I didn’t see her leave the women’s restroom and felt annoyed. I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss a move.

I feel a splash on my wrist, and a tall guy with dark hair and light eyes, who must be ten years younger than me, is smiling at me. I’m so sorry, he says; I didn’t mean to bump your table.

I lick off the alcohol from my wrist, and he smiles wider.

“Can I get you another?

“Sure, I say. A kamikaze, please.

He leaves and returns with drinks for both of us. We engage in small talk, but the conversation takes a twist. It starts to get deep, past relationships and family, and finally, he asks, “Are you single?”

“I am,” I say. It’s only been three months, but I feel so free now.

“I know what you mean,” he concurs. “I’ve been single for about a year now.”

Just then, the DJ blasts the perfect dance song, and we look at each other and get up to dance. It is so much fun, I think. I enjoy the sweaty feeling from dancing as my hair sticks to my face and neck, the pheromones in the air with the slight alcohol buzz, the way the room swirls in the dimness, and the vibe of happiness and opportunity in the bar. My body feels like it is moving exactly how I want it to. I feel sexy and elated.

After a 25-minute set, we make our way back to the table. The girls I came with are in their corners talking to their catches of the day. I didn’t come for any of this, but I was glad it found me. He walks over to the bar to get us another round, and I bite my lip as I see his arms flex and reach into his pocket for his wallet. He’s cute, my type, and he can carry a conversation. He’s not an idiot, I muse. As he walks back towards me, I avert my eyes, acting like I wasn’t watching him, but then I see Shamrock girl. She is hugging the big guy, and the one I assume is the son comes in for a group hug. They hold on to each other, appearing like a tight-knit unit. She must be the sister, I decide. I’ve heard that the big guy has a sister.

A kiss near my lip, he’s back. My flirty side goes in for a small nibble. He smiles directly into my eyes, and I can tell I got him.

“that’s so sexy,” he glows.

After unleashing the shy girl act, engaging in intelligent conversation, being interested in all he says, and validating his masculine gestures—classic flirting—I arrive at the next step: teasing. It’s not as calculated as it sounds; it comes naturally to me, and I could teach a class as good at it as I am at it.

I stare at him as I sip my drink.

There is a commotion at the Shamrock girls’ table. A group of guys and a couple of girls come in, high-fiving and hugging the three family members. I hear loud, “Happy birthdays,” and there is camaraderie. It’s a celebratory moment.

I’ve had enough!

I didn’t come for this. I stand up, grab my jacket, which feels heavier than usual, and tell my cutie I need to find my friends. He looks disappointed, and I am struggling to keep my composure. My chest starts to feel tight, and my stomach starts to turn. I feel my heart beating faster, and my hands begin to shake. I feel sadness, then resolve. Then, the anger. I became blind. I walk to the shamrock girls’ table and stand directly before her. My eyes are hard, and I stare at her. She stops talking, and her face straightens. The big guy, the killer, sucks in his breath.

“Must be nice,” I utter, “Must be nice to have a brother to celebrate his birthday with!” My voice becomes louder and colder. She doesn’t say anything. The surrounding people begin to look towards us. I snatch her hair with exceptional force and yank her face to the table. It is then the rage takes over.

“I fucken hate you!” I scream at her.

I hate you, I say to the big guy attempting to reach for his sister. I pull the small, sharpened handheld spear I carry and jab it into his hand. He yells and pulls his hand back.

It is dawning on her who I am. She thought 25 years ago was long forgotten. The big guy thought it was behind him. He felt he paid his price for killing my brother, his classmate, and his childhood friend, but he didn’t. I didn’t get to serve my justice.

I’m screaming viciously at everyone who is attempting to reach for me. I look like a rat cornered, trying to find a way out. In the corner of my eye, I see my cutie. He doesn’t look shocked. He is slightly smiling at me.

“Let me do this! I scream.

I raise my other hand with my spear and see myself driving it into her temple as I hold her down with my other hand by her hair.

“No, don’t” was the only muffled words I heard from her.

Screams ensue as I graze her head and stab the table. I plunge over and over on the wooden table beside her head until the adrenaline starts to subside.

I realize the music has stopped, and the whole bar is watching. The big guy was stunned, but he didn’t restrain me. He let me do it, as I asked. He’s holding his hand. He mouths, I’m sorry.

As the bar begins to fade into black, I feel someone’s arms gently touching my shoulders, and my shoulders start to cave in. I slowly release my grip on her hair and let my hand fall onto my jacket. Her face, smeared with tears and sweat, looks at me as she backs away.

It’s my cutie’s arms; he guides me away, enveloping me with his body for protection. He moves me through the crowd. My hand feels the metal of the gun, the one I bought a couple of years after the big guy killed my brother in an attempt to curb my fear of guns. It remained in its case for over 20 years. I was still afraid of them. The topic came up in my deep conversation with the cutie I met. I told him my plan. He must have thought I was joking, but he was keen when it rolled out like the scenario I painted.

As he walked me out of the building, I could hear my friends calling after me. I ignored them and got into my cutie’s car. He shut my door and held me. Still feeling numb, we drove to the city. Halfway there, we started opening up again, talking like we had known each other for years.

Nothing ever came of that night, not one thing. There was no police report, and no one ever brought it up. It’s almost as if it never happened. I ended up marrying my cutie. He is my soul mate, and I felt complete.

A few years later, the feeling came again; I felt the stirring. I began formulating another way to get her. I’d send in my cousin to seduce her, make her fall in love, then break her heart. She needs a broken heart like mine.