#52 Short Story
To fall out of love.
To be strangers again.
No connection in between.
Gazes unmeant and without meaning.
It was never love to begin with.
A mere curiosity of sorts,
nothing more.
“I thought she’d be the one,” said the man who smelled of booze so early in the morning. He burped, sighed, chuckled a bit, sniffed the coffee held by his still-shaking hands, and took a sip. “Seriously, brother. What happened?”
The man who could see strings lifted his hand and nudged his pinky upward.
“I guess she was never the one after all.”
“I see you’re still believing that supernatural stuff you usually humor us with,” said the man who smelled of booze so early in the morning. He sighed and placed his styro cup on their makeshift coffee table—the edge of the street pavement. Oddly enough, it was cleaner that day than most.
He reached into his pocket, fumbled a pack of cigars with his rugged fingers, took one, and slipped it between his lips.
“No jokes aside though—what happened?”
The man who could see strings pulled a lighter from his back pocket and handed it to his friend.
“So that’s where my lighter went,” said the man who smelled of booze so early in the morning.
“You left it at the store when we bought the coffee. I just grabbed it when—”
“Oh! That’s why you went back. Thanks.”
The man who could see strings knew it had never been his to begin with. But as a gesture of friendship—or something close enough—and to preserve the monotonous peace, he handed it over anyway. Arguing so early in the morning wasn’t worth it. Not with an acquaintance who smelled of booze so early in the morning. Stress had no place this early.
“So anyway,” said the man who smelled of booze so early in the morning, “she probably isn’t worth it. Maybe we’re better together. Though, who knows how that would’ve turned out. Well—if I wasn’t married.”
He lit his cigar and exhaled, oblivious to where the wind carried the smoke. The man who could see strings turned away, waving it off.
“Yeah. Not worth it. If she and I were—well, it’d probably be the same as with my dear, lovely, lovely—oh.” The man who smelled of booze noticed his acquaintance clearing the smoke. “My bad.” He chuckled.
“It’s fine,” said the man who could see strings, though his eyes returned to the red thread hanging from his pinky. He wondered where it led. To whom it was tied.
Once again, he found himself fixated on the wrong end of the string.
“So, you must’ve heard,” said the man who smelled of booze so early in the morning. “My wife and I had a—” He bit his cigar and rolled up his sleeve, revealing a scar.
“That’s a nasty cut,” said the man who could see strings, forcing concern for his friend.
“Yeah,” the man replied, attempting gallantry despite the hiss in his eyes. “She’s lucky I’m not like other husbands who beat their wives. And you know what that was from? A hunch. No proof. False alarm. Lies. Hearsay. Can you believe that woman…”
The rant went on while the thoughts of the man who could see strings wandered again to the other end of the red thread.
“Hey,” said the man who smelled of booze so early in the morning, abruptly shifting topics. “You got a bit of money I can borrow? My first wife’s kid has a birthday next week.”
The man who could see strings had heard that excuse four times already this year.
“How much?” he asked, cutting his friend short.
“Five hundred—no, seven fifty should do,” said the man, smiling crookedly.
The man who could see strings knew that smile was the only honest thing about his friend.
He handed over a thousand.
“You’re a good pal,” said the man who smelled of booze so early in the morning as he opened his wallet, briefly flashing several bills. “I’ll give you the two fifty later.”
The man who could see strings knew he wouldn’t. Not the two fifty. Not the seven fifty. Not any of the others before. Collecting debts was a hassle. Worse, it felt disrespectful to ask. Peace was always easier.
He stood and sighed.
“I think it’s time we go.”
“Really?” said the man who smelled of booze so early in the morning as he checked a chrome-plated pocket watch. New. “Oh. Look at that.”
He poured the rest of his coffee into the gutter, tossed the cup after it, took one last drag from his cigar, and flicked the butt onto the pavement.
The man who could see strings said nothing.
They walked toward the building where they worked.
“Maybe—” said the man who could see strings.
“What?” his acquaintance cut in.
“I’ll try my luck with that red-haired girl across the street.”
“Nah,” said the man who smelled of booze so early in the morning. “She’s not that cute. You wouldn’t make a good pair.”
“Guess you’re right.”