The Space Between Us

I stepped into The Birdhouse, the best jazz club in the city, and made my way over to the bar. A quartet was on stage playing a variety of Chet Baker tunes, you could tell the trumpeter hadn’t yet lived life. I mean, he was in tune and really into the groove, but something was missing. An edge. He was playing “How Deep Is the Ocean,” and quite frankly, it seemed shallow to me.

           I took a seat at the bar, furthest from the stage. I love Chetty, but I wanted us to be far enough away from the stage that we could actually hold a conversation and hear each other. Us, being myself, and Carol, my wife.

           She was already late, and I began wondering what excuse she’d use this time. The bartender came around twice to take my order, despite me insisting on waiting for my wife. I caved in on his third time around and ordered myself a shot of Jack. I only drink Jack when I know I’m going to get fucked. You can take that literally or figuratively.

           Carol finally showed up and sat beside me, half past ten.

           “What are we here for, and I mean, really, here for?” she said.

           “Well I-”

           “And don’t give me some bullshit reason either, Dickey.”

           “Carol, I-”

           “Bartender! Two old fashioneds over here please.”

           The bartender nodded and began preparing the cocktails for us.

           “I don’t even like bourbon,” I said.

           “Who said one’s for you?” she said.

           I raised my eyebrows.

           “Oh, so now what? I’m an alcoholic?”

           “What? No, but we’ve been married three years now, so you tell me, when have you ever seen me drink bourbon without you?”

           “I wouldn’t know what you drink without me, how could I?” she said.

           I rolled my eyes, “You know what I mean Carol.”

           “Yeah, that you just drink to appease me, huh?”

           “No,” I said, “I drink bourbon, to appease you.”

           Now she rolled her eyes. 

           The bartender came over and placed two old fashioneds in front of us, on coasters, respectfully.

           “You know what? ’Tender, I know you just served me, but could I get a glass of gin and tonic instead, please?” I said.

           He nodded, grabbed the gin off the shelf and began making my drink.

           “Ooh, gin! Impressive!” she said. “What, you’re too classy now for a beer?”

           “No Carol, this is what I always drink” I said. “At least, when I’m not with you, that is.”

           She stared at me hard, sucked her teeth, and downed her drink. The bartender placed the gin and tonic in front of me and was about to grab the unwanted old fashioned, but Carol stopped him.

           “It’s fine, I’ll drink this one,” she said.

           He nodded, then made his way down to the guests at the other end of the bar.

           “So, you drink without me now?” she said. “Is that how it is Dickey? Is that supposed to make me feel sad or sorry or something?”

           “Carol-”

           “No, tell me!” she said.

           “I called you here to finish it.”

           “What?” she said, and choked on her drink. “You can’t be fucking serious.”

           “Well, I am,” I said, and downed my drink in three gulps.

           Carol stared at her empty glass atop its coaster. The cork had soaked up all it could, and now the condensation was oozing through, and over the coaster and onto the bar top.

           “Two more gin and tonics over here when you get the chance,” I half shouted to the bartender, as the quartet was now playing (and how fitting) “I Get Along Without You Very Well”, and you know what? The trumpeter, now singing, actually sounded decent. Maybe its just an easier song to relate to, but I digress.

           Carol, looked up at me as I ordered the drinks. Her long burgundy hair, tediously straightened, was in place behind her small, cute ears. Her green eyes, (I wish there was a word or color more beautiful than green, perhaps jade, then) locked into a fierce gaze with mine. She barely weighed more than a paperweight, and yet, she could really hold her liquor.

           “I’m supposed to drink one of those now?” she said.

           “Yeah,” I said, boldly, the liquor kicking in, “appease me.”

           Just as I said this, the bartender placed the two gin and tonics before us.

           “You’re an asshole,” she said.

           “What?” I said, and picked up my glass for a sip.

           “We haven’t been out together in over a year.” she said. “You tell me to meet you here, and here I am, thinking this will be like a date or something, and you’re here for a fucking divorce?”

           She picked up her glass and took a big drink.

           “Well shit,” I said. “If you thought this was a date, then why were you so late?”

           She ignored the question, took another big drink and said, “You know, these are actually pretty good.”

           I smiled, took a drink of my own, and continued, “You were late Carol, as always. Or at least, always on Fridays, when Tom’s in the office, don’t think I don’t notice.”

           Her posture straightened as she sat up in her stool, taken aback by the sentiment.

           “I had to go over the quota with him,” she said. 

(Carol was a realtor, and Tom, was her broker.)

           “Quota of what? Sucking his dick?” I said, jokingly, not really, but sarcastically, maybe, definitely feeling the buzz now.

           “Fuck you,” she said, and chugged the rest of her drink.

           “Then tell me I’m wrong, hell, I wish you’d actually fuck me.” I said.

           “You’re not, wrong,” she said.

           “No shit,” I said and signaled the bartender for two more drinks, “why do you think I’ve been fucking Marge?”

           “That bitch! I knew it! So, you two have been fucking!” She said.

           (Marge was Carol’s best friend.)

           “Only after, I realized you were fucking Tom,” I said.

           The drinks again, were placed in front of us by the bartender. We remained silent for a bit. She picked her glass up first and took a sip.

           “Why here, though?” she said.

           I took a drink before answering, “This, is me,” I said and I placed the glass back onto its coaster, “The music, the jazz. Since you’ve moved into the guest room, I’ve set the record player up on the night stand, I’m always playing something on there. If you ever paid a visit, you’d know. Or better yet, you’d remember.”

           “Remember what?” she said.

           Jesus, Carol, the song!” I said.

           The quartet was playing “Alone Together” now. Carol stared, clueless, at the stage trying to pair the song with a memory.

           “We danced to this at our wedding,” I said.

           “Oh,” she said.

           Another silence lingered as we both tried recollecting memories of the wedding night. This time I was the first to break the silence.

“I just thought I’d feel more comfortable here.” I said. “That this place would give

me the balls to actually bring this up. I mean, I guess it partially worked, yeah?” We both chuckled at that, the liquor had loosened us up.

           She took a drink, and said, “You haven’t taken me out since the miscarriage.” She placed her drink back onto the bar top, beside the coaster, in its own puddle, then grabbed my forearm with her cold, wet hand. Her long fingers, strangers, to my skin.

           “Do you think I haven’t noticed either?” she said. “Jesus, Dickey, I wanted to be a mother. So bad. In fact, I married you because I wanted you, only you, to raise children with. And I almost died, Dickey. How the fuck was I supposed to know I couldn’t bear?” She said.

           “Carol,” I said, placing my free hand atop hers. It wasn’t cold anymore, but warm, like a comforter fresh out of the dryer, “It’s not your fault. And I’m so sorry. Truly. We just, both kind of shut off after that.” I said.

           We looked at each other with glossy eyes. So much history behind them.

           “Of course I wanted children,” I said, “but before that, all I wanted was you. And It’s still all I want,” I said.

           More silence.

           “Dickey?” she said.

           “Yeah?”

           “Let’s do a shot.”

           “Of what? We’ve already been mixing,” I said.

           “Mixing? You’ve only been drinking gin.”

           “Oh,” I said, “I had a shot of Jack when I thought you’d stood me up.”

           “Jack?” she said, “now, I do recall the times you drank Jack.”

           We both laughed, her a little harder.

           “I left the car at home. Got a ride here,” she said.

           “From Tom?” I said.

           She ignored the question.

           “Let’s do a shot of Jack,” she insisted, and we did, but only after convincing the bartender that we’d catch a cab home.

           “You know,” I said, drunk, and confident, “It’s undeniable.”

           “What is?” she said.

           “The space,” I said.

           “Space?”

           “Just look at the space between us. What if this, is true, authentic, genuine love. As good as it gets. Not the bullshit pulled from a fairy-tale, but love. Real love. Full of compromise and all the shit we agreed, wouldn’t, happen. What if this, the space between us, is love?” I said.

           She tilted her head back and downed the remnants of gin in her glass; water, essentially.

           “If what you’re saying,” she said, “is that this space between us, is love. Well then, if that’s what you’re saying, I guess I love you.

           I picked up my glass, smelled the citrus of tonic, then downed it. “Yeah,” I said “and I guess I still love you too.”

           She put her hand, this time, on mine, and with a drunken, sexy smirk, said, “I’m going to need some help to the ladies’ room, Mr. Handsome.”

           She got up off her stool, hand entwined in mine, and started off towards the bathroom.

           “Wait,” I said.

           “What is it?” she said.

           “This song.”

           She turned to look at the stage with me. The quartet was playing “Let’s Get Lost” and my god, this one, resonated with the trumpeter. You could just tell; he lived the life of the song. It showed in his voice, and it showed in his trumpet. The ease. This song came to him so naturally. You could just hear it. In everything he did. The music wasn’t just notes, but seconds, minutes, hours even, spent alive in this world, getting lost in time.

           “Okay,” I said, “I just wanted to hear my favorite part.”

           We smiled at each other and our eyes locked. Within them was a forgotten future, but now at least there was a glimmer. A glimmer of hope, so to say.

           She turned, and led the way to the bathroom, in which we made true, authentic, genuine love, for the first time in our entire lives.