Where Legends Go to Die

“I’ll have a Bud Light,” I hear a man tell the bartender.

OK, frat boy.

I lift my martini glass to my lips, the first sip of vodka cleansing my hectic week at the office. As I turn to face away from the bartop, my eyes scan the dance floor expecting to see my best friend, Keri. She and I meet at Legends at the end of every work week. I routinely come straight here after closing out the week’s emails, while she usually stops by our apartment to “freshen up”. Keri’s Friday night interests vary slightly from mine, if you catch my drift. 

The lights over the dance floor pulse to the beat of the music, illuminating the faces of the early evening crowd. I assume everyone that comes to the bar this early is also trying to balance an escape from adulthood monotony with how absurdly tired 29-year-olds get at 9pm.

I hear someone lean into the bar next to me and feel the weight of a stare. 

“Another Bud Light, please,” the man murmurs to the bartender. He slurps his drink, then borderline slams it onto the countertop as he sets it down. The pale amber liquid sloshes over the side of the glass, nearly soaking my sleeve, and he looks at me with flushed cheeks. 

Damn it, Keri. If she was here, I wouldn’t be getting hit on by some drunk. 

I smile pitifully, hoping my subtle disapproval is enough to get him to stop before he even starts. After swirling my martini, I watch the olive orbit around my glass and wait for his next move.

“Is she late again?” he says finally.

“Excuse me?”

“Your friend. Is she running late this week?” He exchanges his credit card for the beer from the bartender.

“How do you —?” I start to ask. 

“How do I know you have a friend meeting you here?” The man runs his hand through his brown hair with a smirk.

Great. A drunk and a stalker. Keri owes me a drink.

“Yes. But she’s not running late.” I stammer. “She’s um — she’s in the bathroom.” 

He looks around, boldly motioning to the absence of my best friend. The music floods my ears, the bassline blending in with my heartbeat.

I set my half-full martini on the counter, getting ready to make a break for it.

He chuckles as he looks up at the ceiling. “Wow. You really think you’re the only Friday regular, huh?” 

His green eyes meet mine with a smile and I finally exhale, realizing that although he may be keeping tabs on me, he’s harmless.

“I’m Walt,” he says with an extended hand. 

I glance at his hand, then shake it cautiously. "Holland. But you probably knew that.”

For the next few drinks, Walt and I exchange the typical ‘Who are you?’ and ‘What do you do?’ I learn that he is a finance manager and has a wiener dog named Marty. I share with him that I live with my best friend, Keri, and that I work in HR so my last relationship was strictly against company policy. Hence my friend’s weekly manhunt for me. 

Finally, Walt tilts his head toward the dance floor, asking me to dance.

✦✦✦

After Walt spins me around the dance floor for a few too many songs, I lead us out of the bar onto the windy sidewalk. The commotion and music fade out as the door closes behind us. 

He pulls up on my hand to spin me until I’m looking into his eyes. He clenches his jaw and holds my gaze. As I wrap my hands up and around his shoulder, his hands graze my hips.

“I’m surprised you’re still willing to be seen with me after my dance skills. Embarrassing.” Walt chuckles shyly and looks down at my mouth.

“Why do you think I brought you out here?” I ask. “I have to hide you from the crime scene.”

“Fair,” he says with a shrug.

“Walt, the only thing you have to be embarrassed about is the fact that your drink of choice is the same as that of an 18-year-old fraternity pledge.”

I smile and realize that this is the first time in 2 years of Friday nights at Legends that I’ve actually had fun with a guy. Usually, Keri tries to introduce me to all the men she’s met, and I stay long enough to watch her go home with one of them. And then I go back to the apartment and watch Seinfeld.

Tonight, I feel like Keri. 

“Do you think your friend came, found her beau for the night, and went already?” 

“Maybe,” I say, a sardonic smile leaking out of me, but I scrunch my eyebrows together in unwavering disapproval. 

Walt throws his hands up in front of him, shielding himself from my piercing look. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to judge.”

I give him a pointed look, but eventually ask, “Do you want to go back to my place?”

“Give Keri a call to make sure she’s not occupying the space already.” Contrary to his comment about not meaning to judge, Walt has a very judgy look on his face.

I try to come up with a reason why I shouldn’t call her because I do not want to ruin the night, but I can’t think of one. So I oblige.

It’s chilly outside, so I lean into Walt for warmth and grab my phone out of my purse.

“She’s done this before. Sometimes she ghosts me,” I say as I bring the phone up to my ear, the line ringing.

The busy street hums with downtown traffic, drowning out the light buzz I hear between Walt and me. 

When Keri doesn’t answer, I stare at Walt dubiously.

In the silent pause, a shriek erupts from inside the bar.

We rush inside, the entire crowd swarming to get a glimpse of the scene. Walt and I push our way through feverishly, all eyes falling on us. We finally see her as a bartender cracks the bathroom door open. 

Keri. 

A mangled mess in her adorable rose romper.

And so.

Much. 

Blood.

I scream in orchestrated horror at the sight of my best friend while bystanders look at me sympathetically. 

Walt, however, looks at me in revelation. He silently mouths, “She’s in the bathroom.”

Subtly, I reach into my purse and pull a $20 out of Keri’s wallet, concealing it in my palm.

Like I said, Keri owes me a drink.