The 6pm rule

I wander the streets near my home. It’s nearing 6pm and it’s already dark and cold. I tuck my ears underneath my beanie, careful not to let my AirPods fall out.

I open Spotify on my phone and select Sufjan Stevens “Mystery of Love” for the 100th time today. The gentle, delicate sounds of the mandolin fill my ears. I pass neat houses lining the street, each with wide open windows and glass doors. I peer inside as I walk, trying my best not to be seen. A 32-year-old ill-looking guy in a beanie can easily be mistaken for a creepy sex offender.

I reach into my pocket and pull out a cigarette. Then I remember I’m wearing a mask and put it back. I wish face masks had a hole in the middle for a ciggie, but I suppose that would defeat the purpose.

I pass a house that’s so cliched it would have made a younger version of me sick to my stomach. White picket fence, green ivy creeping up the walls, newly painted letterbox with a “no junk mail” sign … all that crap. I sneak a look through the window. A warm yellow glow shows two children sitting on the floor, scribbling into notebooks with crayons. A woman is leaning on a kitchen bench, sipping a glass of red wine and chatting to a man who is tossing something in a frying pan.

I suppose I could’ve had that too. Not necessarily the kids part, but the company at least. The woman takes a sip of red wine and laughs, the sound jolting me to continue walking before I’m discovered. Why does drinking always look so aesthetically pleasing when done in company? That image would have looked a whole lot different if she’d been drinking alone. I continue until I reach the bottle shop at the end of the street. My late afternoon walk somehow always leads me here.

“Mate. How you going?” Davey asks as I enter. He’s still wearing his mask under his nose like an idiot, even though I told him yesterday masks are meant to cover your mouth and nose. Still, I like Davey. He’s a good bloke. He’s never once acknowledged that I come in daily. He minds his own business and I appreciate that in a person.

I head towards the back of the store and grab two bottles of the cheapest vodka on the shelf. It’s a peculiar looking bottle, the writing on the label is all in Russian and there’s a picture of a red eagle with its tongue sticking out. I used to be fussy about brands but I’m not anymore. I can’t afford to be. I set them down on the register.

“How you holding up then mate? Been tough isn’t it, what with these new stage four lockdowns,” Davey says,

Davey and I always seem to find ourselves having the same conversations day in, day out. It always feels like groundhog day with him.

“Yeah it’s hard but at least we get an hour a day out the house, right?” I respond. My go-to stock standard response.

“Oh yeah well I’m essential you see, so I’m fine but everyone’s been complaining to me.”

I bite my tongue. My job as a musician is deemed non-essential, but a bottle shop is essential? Not that I’m in a position to query that, given I probably pay his wages.

When I get home, I flick on the TV for background noise. I hate the sound of silence. I check the time on my phone, 6.30pm. I pour myself a glass of vodka and scroll through Instagram. My phone usage was ridiculous last week, seven hours a day or something. I go onto my own Instagram page. I do that sometimes, to see what it looks like to a stranger or someone who I haven’t seen in a while. Not that I’d ever admit that to anyone.

I haven’t posted in months. Not since Kate moved out. The last photo is of me and Kate, sitting on this very couch. She’s wearing pink fluffy socks, leggings and an oversized knitted jumper. She’s raising a glass of white wine in the air and smiling. This was taken pre COVID. Pre break up. Pre … well I wouldn’t say I was healthy here, but I was certainly eating better, thanks to Kate’s cooking. Now I eat microwave lasagne almost every night.

Kate took half the furnishings in our apartment when she left. The beautiful green plants that crept up to our ceiling, the pink velvet cushions, the retro coffee table and the coffee machine. It was all her stuff of course - girls just have a way of making a place look nice. I don’t know how they do it.

I take a long slug of vodka and scroll through the camera roll on my phone until I reach six months ago. There’s a photo of me grinning. I’m less gaunt and my eyes aren’t hollow. I was sleeping better back then. Maybe I will post this photo on Instagram tonight and pretend it’s from today.

A giant wave of nausea suddenly ripples through my body. I put my phone down and close my eyes until it passes. I go hot all over and wait for the inevitable rush of bile to come pouring up my throat. But it doesn’t. It passes and suddenly, just like that, I’m totally fine again. I take another sip of vodka and sit further back into the couch.

I feel exhausted. On my good days, like today, I work hard at my routine. The first few weeks of lockdown were sort of a mess, so now, I get up at the same time every day. I cook breakfast if I can stomach it, I try to write some music (which has been proving difficult lately,) and I adhere to the “no drinking before 6pm” rule. I also try not to dwell on the bad days. The ones where the day feels so long it’s impossible to follow the 6pm rule.

I have been writing a song about Kate. A love song. I always romanticise my time with Kate in my music, even though in reality things were far from perfect. But, to her credit, she was the last man standing. Well, last woman standing. Everyone else had already gone. She remained until the bitter end, still holding onto a tiny shred of hope that things would change. Women tend to be wired that way. They stay optimistic that someone is capable of change. They fight, I mean really fight, for you until eventually throwing in the towel. I like that about them.

It’s not fair of me to say everyone bailed on me. It was the other way around if I’m honest. I cut people off when things got awkward: if I owed them money, or I’d embarrassed myself in front of them. Back when I had a social life, I’d wake up and couldn’t remember a thing from the night before. I’d sheepishly send texts out the next day. “Did I do or say anything weird last night?” Then I would cross every single finger and toe as I waited for the three little dancing dots appear signalling a response.

So, I cut people off. It’s easier than continually letting them down. I think everyone around me assumed I was past feeling shame but that wasn’t true. I felt it all the damn time. And in an ironic twist, the shame would spiral me into drinking again. Drinking to forget what I’d done the night before.

I don’t tend to feel shame these days. Now that I don’t have anyone watching me, I don’t have to worry what anyone thinks! I’m free of the burden and responsibility of others. So, it’s not all bad.

I walk to the kitchen and pour another full glass of vodka. Then I open the freezer and pull out a frozen meal I bought from Woolworths a couple of days ago. Plant based chicken curry, should be … interesting.

My phone buzzes from the couch and I look up in surprise. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a complete loser. I get the odd text here and there, but they have been rare since everyone went into lockdown. People became too busy focusing on themselves to worry about anyone else, which is totally fine by me. I pick up my phone, it’s a text from Kate.

“Hi Jake. Just checking in. How are you? x”

The edges of my mouth creep into a small smile against my will. I haven’t heard from her since the breakup. She asked me not to get in touch, so I didn’t. I pull off my beanie and run a shaking hand through my hair.

I type a quick response, scared if I don’t reply immediately she’ll disappear.

“Never better,” I reply. “You?”