Out of Hiding

A night like every other. Different counter, same scratches and stains. Different stool, same slouch. Different boozy lunk to her left, same stench.

She lifted the glass she'd been nursing the last hour. A black something in the amber caught her attention before it reached her lips. She stuck her thumb and forefinger in the liquid, and pulled out a fly. She studied it a moment before wrapping it in a napkin.

Then she shrugged and took a sip. Can't demand a new glass without calling attention. Can't toss it and order a new one without extra money in her pocket. Can't walk away. Where would she go? And she'd be damned to leave a glass undrunk. It was almost time.

Do what needs doing. Her mother's mantra, a ghostly echo still knocking about her head. She took another sip.

The noisy foursome in the back corner tumbled out the door, making animal noises. The couple who had met at the counter, played pool, danced to slow songs then made out in a back booth, sauntered out with their hands down each other's back pockets. The lunk put his head down on the counter.

Finally.

"Last call," called out the bartender, scraping empty mugs and fry baskets off the tables, tumbling crumbs onto the floor.

He looked exhausted, impatient, resentful--like all barkeeps at the end of their shift. Lorraine liked the ones who were all dried up and cracking from the inside out. Their apathy was reassuring. Too many bartenders in this part of town had just enough juice left to be a powder keg. Those men she avoided.

Lorraine appraised the guy who had let her sip a cheap beer for an hour. He was one of the few who were still steaming from the dregs of hope kept simmering somehow. Eh, he was young.

Lorraine left a pile of ones and exact change on the counter. After a pause, she added another bill.

She shouldered a ridiculously large purse, waved a vague good night, and headed toward the door, yawning conspicuously. But just before exiting, with a glance over her shoulder at the scuttling bartender, she slunk back toward the ladies' room.

No one who wasn't looking for her ever noticed her.

Once in the bathroom, she slipped into a stall, hung her purse on the hook on the door, and climbed onto the toilet seat, crouching so that her head remained out of sight. Only then did she notice that the toilet bowl still held a deposit. Lorraine shook her head in disgust.

Should she chance a flush? No, too few women left in the bar. The bartender might wonder.

Luckily, a woman stumbled into the ladies' room. Peering through the crack in the door, Lorraine recognized her from a seat down the counter. She was about Lorraine's age, but appeared even more the stereotypical boozer. She did her business, grunting a little, then flushed. Lorraine pushed her toilet handle at the same time. The woman, swaying while she splashed water on her hands, paid no mind. Perfect.

Lorraine maintained her uncomfortable position until a man's hand reached into the room and flicked off the light. Then she eased herself down and listened until she heard the front door of the bar click locked.

Freedom.

Lorraine counted to twenty-five, her little ritual, then groped her way out of the ladies' room. By the streetlight through the big windows she made her way to the entrance to the tiny kitchen, at the far end of the bar.

Quietly she closed the kitchen door behind her, turned on a small flashlight and opened the large metal cooler. Escaping vapor swirled in the faint light.

This particular bartender, she had gleaned, had a crush on the lady who worked the first shift. So he stashed plates of leftovers marked with her name every night--health regulations be damned. She was doing him a favor, Lorraine thought as she lifted tinfoil off the first plate, keeping him out of trouble.

The microwave was a risk, but even Lorraine couldn't stomach cold wings. Impatiently she waited for the timer to count down. Then she dug in.

She was peeling foil off a plate of french fries when she heard a thump. Like something large had hit the floor.

Instantly the flashlight went out. Her breath stopped. Her heart thumped as loudly as whatever had caused that noise out there. Irrationally, she closed her eyes. She poured every drop of sensation into her ears and stood perfectly still for a long, long time.

She heard no more noises. Just the normal not-noise night sounds.

Finally she felt herself breathing again. In, out, heart slowing, eyes opening.

The kitchen door was open. A man was standing in the doorway. In the darkened room she could only see him in shadowy relief, tentatively outlined in streetlight, leaning heavily on the doorframe.

"Help me," he said.

He lurched toward her, tipping a little to the right. He stubbed into the edge of the cooler and howled. Lorraine snatched up a paring knife from the counter.

"No," she whispered. Now that he was no longer blocking the light she recognized him as the lunk who had drooled on the bar beside her.

"I need help!" he demanded, teetering even more. He reached for her. Lorraine backed away, slashing wildly with the knife. As her hip bumped painfully against the small table at the rear of the kitchen, she felt the blade make contact with one of his flailing arms.

His cry was gutteral, feral. He grabbed her wrist, wrenching away the knife. His breath was booze and vomit. He clenched her shoulder, steadying himself. Lorraine felt the warm wet that oozed from his hand.

She whimpered and twisted under his weight. His grip tightened. She kicked his shin but he seemed not to notice. He slowly brought the knife up in front of his face as if wondering what it was. Then he looked down at Lorraine.

The next moment, he flailed and toppled to the floor, his head bouncing against the table as he fell. There was a strange and horrible gurgling.

Then once again, all was silent.

One moment Lorraine's shoulder was in a vise, and a blade waved unsteadily by her head. The next instant she was staring at the blood pooling at her feet. She had simply sidestepped away, leaving nothing but air in her wake. How had she done it?

How very odd, she thought, as she backed away. She couldn't see her feet. She lifted her hand to wipe her hair away from her face, and realized she couldn't see her hand. She looked at herself in the small mirror that hung by the kitchen door, and saw--nothing.

How very odd, she thought again. Not that she was invisible, but that it seemed the most natural thing to be.

Lorraine picked up the plate of fries, still cold, and headed toward the door. Then she turned back and took a ketchup bottle from the shelf. She settled herself in the booth farthest from the front door, and ate the fries one by one, dunking them into a pool of ketchup.

When she was done she put the empty plate into the trash bag she kept in her ridiculously oversized purse, wiped crumbs off the table with a napkin, and threw that away as well. It tickled her to see the fries seemingly levitate up to her mouth, and the napkin float through the air and disappear into her invisible purse.

Then she curled up on the seat cushion, her purse serving as a pillow. She waggled her hand in front of her face, loving how unseeable it looked, and sighed.

It had been a long time since she felt both full and safe at the same time.

She started awake, thinking of the bloody man lying in the kitchen, and the mess she had left with the food. Should she ...?

Lorraine sighed again and pulled her old coat up to her chin. Others would do what needed doing. What she was going to do was close her eyes, unnoticed even by the flies, and sleep.