That would be New York, the man said, leaning over her to snag an extra olive off the bar tray.
Mindy frowned. She’d spoken out loud. This wasn’t the first time, but it was getting to be a habit. A bad one, by the way this man was looking at her now. He had a nice enough face, she supposed. A bit wrinkled around the eyes and when he smiled he had all his teeth. He slid onto the empty stool next to her.
This is Vegas, he said, glancing around the gold room. And it was gold: wallpaper, light fixtures, carpet. Even the wait staff was decked in gold with blood-red accents. Overhead fixtures were fitted with gold filters, making the light an ambient gold instead of harsh fluorescent white. Mindy glanced at the man. His skin would be harshly lit in other lights, cheeks over-exposed, blue eyes washed out. In this room he was a mellow gold, a perpetual suntan. Midas, Mindy thought to herself. Made of money.
The man laughed again, charmed. I’m not that rich, he said. But I can buy you another drink. He signaled the waiter.
Mindy set down her glass and studied the lipstick ring. Sorry, she said, then louder, in case she only said that word in her head. It would figure. Saying crazy things out loud when she should be silent and keeping mum when she needed to speak.
He looked at her. For?
She looked at him and lied. One too many of these. I can’t tell if I am talking or thinking anymore. I don’t mean to be rude. Call you Midas. She set the glass down, stood to go.
He put a hand out, gently. Don’t. Don’t go. Please. He smiled again, flashing teeth that were a little too bright in the gold room. Caps, Mindy thought, then prayed she’d kept that one to herself.
She slid back on the stool, half on, half off. One foot on the rung, the other tapping the floor. Whipping out a beat to a tune only she could hear. She could feel her body shaking, even her breasts were in motion and now her hands were barely still on the bar top. Her foot wasn’t shaking. She was. She could feel it, sorrow rising up like backwash in a dirty lake. Who was this man anyway? She only wanted to sit in the casino. Be alone. Stare at the lights. Talk herself down.
My name is Daniel, he said. Rhymes with Midas. He laughed. Threw his head back, and his hair, a bit unruly with a cowlick and a curl, flopped over his ears like a shaggy dog.
Cute, sarcastic Mindy said, then covered her mouth, hoping he hadn’t heard. He had of course, his grin was back. He quickly patted the back of her hand, then slid a fresh drink before her.
Mindy picked up the napkin, dabbed her mouth. She studied her pink lip print and frowned. The casino was deafeningly loud, a peaking crescendo this close to midnight. Still, he seemed perfectly tuned in to the whispered words that slid out of her mouth.
Except she probably wasn’t whispering. Maybe not shouting, maybe just speaking clearly, sounding out her mind, the way she always did. It was what Harry loved about her.
She pressed her lips, gently forcing them apart. For a moment she felt the line of her teeth, tongue darting to the roof of her mouth. A parody of a dummy, lips jerking without a hand to hold her up. She spoke. I think out loud, I talk to myself. Sometimes I say odd things. Sometimes I forget I’m not alone.
She glanced around the casino. Hard to believe I’m even here, it’s where I most don’t want to be.
Daniel was staring at her, eyebrows furrowed, one long bridge across his nose. She pressed her mouth again, said: I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to talk. To you, to anyone. Then she made a zipping motion, sealing her lips closed. She picked up her glass and moved away.
Wait 'til I tell Harry! Moving my mouth like some madcap dummy. Harry will -- Mindy stopped. Harry was why she was here, stuck in this endless round of drinks and bars and strange men.
2
Another casino. Another conjoined embryo, seamlessly connected. Inside, the colors were different, the servers, the music. Costumes in this new space: masks, feathers, sequins, an eternal Mardi Gras. As she stepped through the doorway, someone draped a strand of beads over her head. It caught on her ear, hung like a purple strand of glitter. She let it be, thinking it a strange flower, somehow right.
Mindy sat at another bar, faced another mirror. Touched her lips. You’re not going to start that again, she said. This time her lips stayed closed.
She looked at her fingers, wiped away the pink lipstick on her napkin. Someone talks to you, you just answer. Like you use to do when Harry was alive.
The bartender leaned in, smiling. He said, Can I – and then pulled the purple garland out of her hair and settled it around her neck. His fingers lingered, burned.
Now. What can I get you?
No more daiquiris. Wine? No. Harry never liked either.
Scotch, she said. With a beer chaser. Then she winced, knowing the combination would make her violently ill later. So who cares, she said. Out loud.
‘Scuse me? He set the drinks down, wiped the bar with a white towel.
Mindy smiled, lifted the Scotch. Cheers, she said, and swallowed.
Anything but, her mind flipped back. Mindy choked on the slow fume, started to cry.
Hey hey, he said, reaching for the glass. Mindy pulled back, knocked over the beer. It splashed across the polished mahogany, funneled onto the floor. She fumbled in her purse and stuffed a wad of bills in his hand.
Sorry. To herself. Sorry. Out loud.
Sorry.
3
Another casino. King Arthur this time, a fantasy inside her bad dream. Sitting in a restaurant this time, the buffet behind her. A plate of cold eggs, bacon, toast. Coffee. No one paying attention to her. No one talking to her, touching her. Why must they touch?
Stop touching me, to the server who came to drop the check. He had set a hand on Mindy’s shoulder. The paper fluttered to the table. Mindy pinned it under the water glass.
Mindy looked at herself in the mirrored walls. Wide green eyes, ringed with sleepless nights and failed mascara. Full lips, swollen from too many licks of pink. Tousled hair, black and white, pepper and salt. Small hands, nails bitten, flecks of red polish looking more like blood down by the cuticles.
You’re still beautiful. Harry’s voice. Guys always want to talk to a pretty girl.
Her gaze dropped. Figure, better now than before. Not eating, not sleeping, not breathing, not being. It agreed with her waistline, had leavened her breasts. The dress, not new, not old. Worn once on her wedding, twice on a cruise. Now it skimmed where it had stuck.
You could wear a burlap bag. Harry used to say. You’d still be my beautiful wife.
Mindy started. Lurched out the door and into the lobby. Through the double doors, past the slot machines, Black Jack, craps.
More lights, more blaze, more heat.
The lights never go off in the city, she said. To herself. The casino is always day and it’s always night. Conversational, said to the waitress gliding past.
Roulette: random wheel, matching pebble. Mindy slides over a pile of chips, watches the wheel race and slow, the white rabbit landing on Harry’s death date.
She turned to the man next to her. Blurted. I don’t like the dark. I’m waiting for morning.
He showed her the time. You’ve made it, he said.
by Susan Rich, (c)2014 All Rights Reserved
