I stepped into Lake Street so a mask-wearing couple could pass. They strolled along the sidewalk under the mighty oaks hand-in-hand. The boughs blotted out the night sky’s stars as much as downtown Orlando’s lights. I gave the couple space by taking the brick street on my way for a walk around Lake Eola still alone since a year ago L. had packed a bag and left our apartment, our marriage, and me.
Across the street, the Local bar blasted music out of its doors as wide open as the Governor had allowed Florida businesses to operate again. An A-frame sign in front of the Local’s entrance read It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere, but it was closer to midnight. A toothy semi-circle cut in the sign made it look like a shark had taken a bite. There was as much threat from state officials to harass any unmasked or too-close gathering people as the potential of a land-shark to chomp on a person.
I stopped in the street as suddenly as if a dorsal fin had surfaced out of the cement entrance to the Local. On a barstool, with her right side to the door, a woman wore her brown hair slightly curled over her shoulders in a white shirt that tapered to where her seemingly familiar hips curved into black slacks. The woman held a pint glass in her right hand. I couldn’t see the inside of her right arm and a Salvador Dali tattoo painting that I knew was inked on L.’s inner bicep.
Before L. left she had said sometimes she just wanted to go to a bar and have a drink. She knew I didn’t like to drink because I wanted to be in control. I didn’t say that I was concerned about seeing more emptied bottles of wine and beer cans than ever in our recycling. I didn’t say that a depressed person might feel more depressed by drinking a depressive. I had said she could just invite me to go out with her, but I knew I wouldn’t be going along with her. If I went then I would drink water and feel diluted, while L. would drink what she was feeling.
I walked away from the Local before I could see if the woman was sitting next to a guy, or hear if the woman laughed like L. who could cackle through walls, or witness if the woman was L. and enjoyed herself without me. I didn’t want to be seen walking back the way I came from my studio and on the heels of the couple still strolling the sidewalk. I continued on to Lake Eola.
I clockwise looped the lake’s nearly mile circuit that I knew would be mostly empty. The painter had already packed up his dark oil canvases of supervillains. The international tourists had returned to their hotels. The photographer hustling duo had capped their long lenses. The hunched over street couple who always played some card game on a bench had rolled away their luggage.
Since L. left and after our divorce, I had seen a handful of women. They had looked different and brought different baggage on dates with me. All those women became one combined woman who contained their multitudes.
She wore a cape, or at least a gauzy draped black material from her shoulder to her heels. She wore denim shorts and a T-shirt screen-printed with the Batman logo. She wore a floral top that brightened the stormy day. She wore her hair curly, but sprayed with product that made it look as wet as tears. She wore a little black dress.
The saxophonist honked a toot. Some bills filled his instrument case. I didn’t have any cash on me and I wasn’t going to stop my walk to listen to him play on the jutting boardwalk. I continued to walk and consider the women I had dated.
I had met all the women online but I didn’t meet them at Lake Eola. I didn’t want to be where I lived with any of those women. I wanted to keep my own space where I could be alone but also near other people, people who probably only knew me as the man in Chaco sandals who walked around the lake.
I was intentional before going on my dates. I said I hadn’t knowingly been around anyone exhibiting viral symptoms and that I didn’t exhibit symptoms. I let them know I wore a mask indoors, but I just kept distance outdoors. I said I usually was a hugger, but I wanted both of us to be safe.
I had mostly met the women for coffee. We hugged and we talked. It was nice to get to know someone else and be asked questions about myself. All the women who seemed to become one woman all got to know about my divorce and I got to know her backstory, too.
She wasn’t divorced from her husband. She had special needs triplets. She had had her identity stolen by a date. She had never been in a relationship for longer than one year. She said she didn’t want to emotionally invest in anyone.
The end of all the dates felt like draining a cup of decaf. We hugged, and sometimes we kissed. We had served a social function of conversing and drinking coffee together, but I didn’t feel that jitteriness that I wanted with a woman.
There had been nights when L. came home from being out that she wanted me. She always came home and I always wanted her. She used to crawl into bed and wake me with a dry taste that would then slicken. I couldn’t remember when she started to let me sleep.
On the last stretch of the lake loop, the guy who made palm art tucked away the extra fronds like the swan’s folded their wings in their nests. Acoustic chords drifted from a guitar player strumming on a bench by World of Beer. I listened to the lullaby and watched the lake’s fountain. Its spray descended and its lights dimmed. Beyond it, the brutalistic Orange County Courthouse’s turrets continued to flare.
We had been divorced in the courthouse. That was the second to last time I had seen L. The last time I saw her we had finished our marriage settlement.
I finished the loop at Central Avenue and Lake Street. I wanted to see L. again. I crossed the street on the side of the Local. I wanted to know if it was her in there. I didn’t know if I would just stare or if I would step through the threshold or if I would say what we used to say to each other, “Hey, good looking,” or if I would check to see if she could drive and offer her a ride to her new apartment where she had made a place without me.
At the Local, I looked inside to the barstool. The woman—whoever it had been—wasn’t there. Nobody was there. It was as empty as a bottle or can added to the recycling to be remade and then refilled.
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