I am not a good man. I know this not because others have proven it to me, but because I have spent years proving it to myself. And yet, oddly, I would be offended if you agreed.
I am excessively weird. Weirdness, you see, is a disease. A real, fully developed disease.
Do not imagine that I seek your sympathy. I despise sympathy, especially my own craving for it. I want to be left alone, but I also want you to notice that I am alone. If you fail to do so, I will hate you. If you succeed, I will hate myself.
I came to SideCar for a drink, which is to say, I came here to delay going home. People pretend this distinction doesn’t matter. It does. A drink is honest. Delay is not.
I am seated at the bar, reading White Nights, which is a foolish book to read in a place like this. I keep reading it anyway.
There are four bartenders behind the counter. Three men, one woman. They move with the efficiency of people who know they are being watched. Bartending is theatre disguised as labour. Shake, pour, garnish, slide. Repeat. The male bartenders perform with confidence. The female bartender performs indifference. I suspect she has learned which one is safer.
They do not ask me what kind of night I am having. This is good. I would not answer correctly.
The lights here do not illuminate; they exist. Everyone looks slightly better than they deserve to, including me. Especially me. SideCar has perfected this illusion. It allows people to believe they are more interesting after sunset.
One stool away from me sits a woman. A lawyer, as it turns out. She tells me this herself. She initiates the conversation. I notice this only afterward.
“You’re actually reading,” she says, nodding at the book.
“Yes,” I reply, basically defending my act of reading.
“In a bar?”
“I am weird,” I say. This is true.
“What is it?”
“White Nights.”
She pauses. “That doesn’t sound cheerful.”
“It isn’t,” I say. “But it’s short.”
She smiles like she is deciding whether to stay curious or polite. I do not help her decide. This is my contribution to the moment.
She tells me she’s a lawyer. I do not ask what kind. I imagine her days are full of arguments she wins and evenings full of conversations she doesn’t want to have. I relate to the second part.
“What do you do?” she asks.
I hesitate long enough for the answer to lose its relevance.
“I chill,” I say.
She laughs. Loudly. This unsettles me.
The bartender places my drink in front of me. Alcohol arrives. A small victory. A temporary one. I do not believe alcohol reveals the truth. It merely gives the truth permission to speak badly.
We talked for a few minutes. About books. About how amazing SideCar is. About how Delhi AQI is killing us all. About how she is 7 drinks down.
I do not ask for her number. This is not hesitation. This is policy.
Asking would mean admitting the conversation mattered. It did. I refuse to reward it.
She leaves first. We shook hands. I watch her go without turning my head. I am very good at this.
I return to the book. The irony does not escape me. Dostoevsky would have enjoyed this.
Behind the bar, the four bartenders continue their choreography. A glass breaks somewhere. Someone laughs too loudly. Someone else repeats a story everyone already knows. Friendship, romance, loneliness, everything here is performed at a higher volume than necessary.
The drink is half-finished now. I slow down. Another sip. This one tastes like resignation. Or maybe lime. Hard to tell.
I think about leaving. I think about staying. I do neither for a while. This, too, is a skill. People assume indecision is weakness. They are wrong. Indecision is control disguised as paralysis.
Eventually, I paid the bill. As I leave, no one notices. This is a relief. This is also an indictment.
Outside, the noise fades. The night feels less performative. I tell myself I will write about this later.
SideCar remains behind me, full of light, liquor, and people mistaking proximity for connection. I walk away with the quiet satisfaction of having observed everything and altered nothing.
This is how I prefer it.
~ A
SideCar, G.K-2
—
This post was previously published on medium.com.
Love relationships? We promise to have a good one with your inbox.
Subcribe to get 3x weekly dating and relationship advice.
Did you know? We have 8 publications on Medium. Join us there!
***
–
Photo credit: Alan Girish On Unsplash
