dilute as afterthought

"I'm a cop. It's what I do. What I am. Really." He says this as a declaration, but his tone drifts towards the open ceiling. Gets lost in the ambient music. Sweeps along the course of the black iron beams and drowns in the roar of the forced air. The heat.

I remain quiet. Half smiling. Wrap three fingers around the thick stem of the glass and swirl most of what’s left of the Manhattan around the bowl. I’m considering the deep amber color. The viscosity. The legs, oozing down the sides. The dark, sweet cherries. The blue and white starburst design of the coaster. The yellow grain of the lacquered wood table. The tall glasses of ice and water, sweating between us in the center of the table. Untouched.

I cut my eyes up towards his fleshy face. Catch his gaze for a second as he turns up his glass of bourbon and Coke. A smirk plays across the expanse of his face. Twists out from the sides of his drink.

His pale, meaty hands consume what remains as he shifts his gray eyes to the server. Felicity. Her name is Felicity. A dark, pretty girl with long chestnut braids that twist out from under her bright orange ball cap and fall to rest on her shoulders. She’s smiling. Courteous and cordial.

His tone is curt. Almost dismissive. “Yep. I’ll have another.” He flicks his finger towards my glass. “And bring another one for the lady.”

She casts her eyes to me. I smile up at her. Nod. And mouth a silent word of thanks as she walks off across the room, deftly skirting the empty tables that stand between us and the servers’ station set up at the end of the bar.

He’s studying me. His eyes fixed and direct. "You - that thing you wrote..."

I’m surprised. I want to say, Okay. You’ve done your homework. But I’m not giving in to it. My tone is deadpan. “It's a stream. A stream of consciousness.”

“What?... No.” He stops. The ice in the glass has gone to liquid. It’s the color of piss.

Felicity carries her tray to our table. Lays out clean coasters and sets the fresh round of drinks between us. He’s not looking at her when he orders another Coke. This time without the bourbon.

He runs his hand over the top of his hair, close cropped and graying. “Look. It's my job to unravel things. To make sense of everything. And you. You make no sense. That thing you wrote. You’re so much more than that.” Light beads of sweat form on his forehead. His brows knit together. “It’s like someone put oil and water together in a jar and shook it. But this time - this one time - it stayed together and made you. And this is what you are. I don't understand it. But here you are.” He trails off. Shifts his girth against the back of the chair. Hustles his seat that groans against the worn planks of the floor. Drains the bourbon that’s gone to water, dilute as an afterthought.

“Do you know what love is?”, he asks. Then answers in the same breath. “It's a combination of chemicals that flood the brain and make it all mushy. I know. I’ve read about this.”

I want to laugh, but I don’t.

“What do you think happens when the chemicals run out?”

There’s an effervescence. A ticking sound in my head. Like a metronome. Maybe a stopwatch. “I don't know,” I say. “But you should probably enjoy the dopamine rush while it lasts.”