Reminders of Him

That’s why I wanted to turn down the wine, dammit.
Now I’m not going to sleep well tonight. I have no reason to feel
accomplished because he made me feel the complete opposite. If I want to
sleep well tonight, I’m going to need to turn down something else I want.
Or someone.
I haven’t wanted anyone in a long, long time. Not since I first met
Scotty. But the bartender was kind of hot, and he had a great smile, and he

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makes great coffee, and he already invited me to come back, so it’ll be
simple to show up and turn him down.
Then I’ll sleep well and be prepared to wake up and face the most
important day of my life.
I wish I could take my new kitten with me. I feel like I need a
sidekick, but she’s asleep on the new pillow I bought at the store earlier.
I didn’t buy much. The inflatable mattress, a couple of pillows and
sheets, some crackers and cheese, and some cat food and litter. I decided
I’m only going to live two days at a time in this town. Until I know what
tomorrow will bring, there’s no sense in my wasting any of the money I’ve
been working six months to save up. I’m already running low, which is why
I choose not to call a cab.
I leave the apartment to walk back to the bar, but I don’t carry my
purse or my notebook with me this time. I just need my driver’s license and
my apartment key. It’s about a mile-and-a-half walk from my apartment to
the bar, but it’s nice out and the road is well lit.
I’m a little concerned that someone might recognize me at the bar, or
even on my walk there, but I look completely different than I did five years
ago. I used to care more about self-maintenance, but five years in prison has
made me less concerned about hair dye and extensions and false lashes and
artificial nails.
I didn’t live in this town long enough to make many friends outside of
Scotty, so I doubt many people even know who I am. I’m sure plenty of
them know of me, but it’s hard to be recognized when you aren’t even
missed.
Patrick and Grace might recognize me if they saw me, but I only met
them once before going to prison.
Prison. I’ll never get used to saying that word. It’s such a hard word to
say out loud. When you lay the letters out on paper individually, they don’t
seem that harsh. But when you say the word out loud, “Prison,” it’s just so
damn severe.
When I think about where I’ve been for the last five years, I like to
refer to it in my head as the facility. Or I’ll think of my time there as When I
was away, and leave it at that. To say “When I was in prison” is not
something I’ll ever get used to.

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I’ll have to say it this week when I look for a job. They’ll ask, “Have
you ever been convicted of a crime?” I’ll have to say, “Yes, I spent five
years in prison for involuntary manslaughter.”
And they’ll either hire me or they won’t. They probably won’t.
There’s a double standard for women, even behind bars. When women
say they’ve been to prison, people think trash, whore, addict, thief. But
when men say they’ve been to prison, people add badges of honor to the
negative thoughts, like trash, but badass, addict, but tough, thief, but
impressive.
There’s still a stigma with the men, but the women never get out with
stigmas and badges of honor.
According to the clock on the courthouse, I make it back downtown at
eleven thirty. Hopefully he’s still here even though I’m half an hour late.
I didn’t pay attention to the name of the bar earlier, probably because
it was daylight out and I was shocked it was no longer a bookstore, but
there’s a small neon sign above the door that reads W
ARD’s
.
I hesitate before going back inside. My return presence is more or less
sending this guy a message. A message I’m not sure I want him to receive.
But the alternative is my going back to that apartment and being alone with
my thoughts.
I’ve spent enough time alone with my thoughts over the past five
years. I’m craving people and noise and all the things I haven’t had, and my
apartment reminds me a little of prison. There’s a lot of loneliness and
silence there.
I open the door of the bar. It’s louder and smokier and somehow
darker than it was earlier. There are no empty seats, so I weave through
people, find the restroom, wait in the hall, wait outside, weave some more.
Finally, a booth opens up. I cross the room and sit in it alone.
I watch the bartender flow behind the bar. I like how unbothered he
seems. Two guys get into an argument, but he doesn’t care—he just points
to the door and they leave. He does that a lot. Points at things, and people
just do the things he points out for them to do.
He points at two customers while making eye contact with the other
bartender. That bartender walks up to them and closes out their tabs.
He points to an empty shelf, and one of the waitresses nods, and then a
few minutes later she has the shelf restocked.

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He points at the floor, and the other bartender disappears through the
double doors and reappears with a mop to clean up a spill.
He points to a hook on the wall, and another waitress, a pregnant one,
mouths, “Thank you,” and she hangs up her apron and goes home.
He points, and people do, and then it’s last call, and then it’s time to
close. People trickle out. No one trickles in.
He hasn’t looked at me. Not even once.
I second-guess being here. He seems busy, and maybe I read him
wrong earlier. I just assumed when he told me to come back that he said it
for a reason, but maybe he tells all his customers that.
I stand up, thinking maybe I need to trickle out, too, but when he sees
me stand, he points. He makes a simple motion with his finger, indicating
for me to sit back down, so I do.
I’m relieved to know my intuition was right, but the emptier the bar
gets, the more nervous I grow. He assumes I’m a grown-ass woman, but I
barely feel like an adult. I’m a twenty-six-year-old teenager, inexperienced,
starting from scratch.
I’m not sure I’m here for the right reasons. I thought I could just walk
in, flirt with him, and then walk away, but he’s more tempting than any
bougie coffee. I came here to turn him down, but I had no idea that he
would be pointing all night, or that he would point at me. I had no idea