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Fiction

It was around 11:30 pm when Monika called, waking me up from a deep slumber.

“Can you come? I need you here.”

“Yes, of course.”

My chest tightened. She never called. I got up and walked to the bathroom to wash my face. Pausing before the mirror, I noticed a few grey hairs in my stubble. My eyes looked tired.

I put on black jeans, a t-shirt, a pair of distressed leather boots, drank a glass of water and walked out the door. A pleasantly cool breeze embraced me as I headed to her neighbourhood.

She was outside, as beautiful as ever, wearing a green cocktail dress that reminded me of summer days long past. Her lively ever-curious eyes locked onto mine. She took my hand and led me up the street.

“Let’s go.”

We walked a couple of blocks in silence. Then she turned her head as if to check whether I was still there. She smiled and my heart sank. Some things you never get over.

I thought of her often. Accidentally for the most part. It doesn’t take much to trigger a memory: a date on a calendar, a street corner, a phrase said by a friend, the colour of a stranger’s hair. You tend to remember the good. The bad fades away.

She turned into an alley. There was a bar we used to go to a lot. That night, it was packed, smoky and loud. A band was playing. As we passed through the crowd, someone I knew tapped my shoulder. The adjacent room was quieter, and we sat at the bar.

“Two vodkas, please.”

The bartender put two shots on the counter. She downed hers. Then took mine and downed it as well.

“So what is this about?”

She paused. The light above the bar illuminated her face — enchanting, but not mine anymore.

“I still love you.”

I woke up to the trill of a ringing phone and found myself on the couch in the living room, with a book on my chest. Must have fallen asleep reading. I saw the phone and picked it up. It was her.

“Can you come? I need you here.”

“No.”