“No one had seen him enter the dark, smokey room filled with loud voices and laughter.”
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Author: lettersfromheartscontent
I'm a writer working on YA fiction. I am also a mother of six, grandmother, wife to a forester, former homeschool teacher and tutor with Classical Conversations. Now retired from teaching Music at a small Christian school. In retirement I am writing, care-giving, decluttering, and calling village dances in order to give groups of strangers the joy of accomplishing something good together. View all posts by lettersfromheartscontent
A Porch of Whittlers 
No one had seen him enter the dark, smokey room filled with loud voices and laughter. Dale had always been good at being invisible, even when he didn’t want to be. He thought back to his twenty first birthday where hardly anyone had known his name, his party just another excuse to get drunk on bottom shelf Vodka before finals. Tonight wouldn’t feel much different, he realized as a woman walked right into him, spilling her beer down his white button up, then wandering away with just a slurred “Sorry!”
“It’s…fine,” he muttered, trailing off as he realized no one was listening. He wasn’t sure why he’d gone out tonight. He should have just bought a six pack and some pizza and chatted with his friends over video games online like he did every other Friday. He supposed he was looking for the sort of human connection you couldn’t get from a wifi connection, but he was growing increasingly more confident he wouldn’t find it here either.
He sighed, made his way to the bar, and flagged down the bartender–a feat in itself. Finally, he found himself with a glass. It gave him something to do with his hands at least.
“Here’s to another night alone.” He raised the glass in a toast to himself, his words swallowed by the din of the bar.
“Oh, but you aren’t alone.”
The voice was loud in his ear, as if he truly was talking to someone on his headset in his comfortable computer chair back home, but there was no one next to him, no one making eye contact, even. He took a large swallow of his cocktail, but it did nothing to settle his nerves.
“Who said that?” he said a little more loudly. It got him some weird looks from the people in his vicinity, but no answer. Great. He was hearing things now. He finished his drink more quickly than he’d intended, and almost immediately, the bartender put another down in front of him.
“Don’t worry.” The strange voice in his ear again. “This one’s on me.”
He nearly grabbed the bartenders arm in his desperation to get the man’s attention. “Hey, who sent me this drink?”
The bartender seemed shaken from some haze by the question, his eyes far away and his body moving as if from muscle memory. Suddenly sharp again, he looked from the drink to Dale and shrugged. “Secret admirer, I guess.” He dove back into his work, leaving Dale alone with his imaginary friend.
“Who the hell are you?” Dale said, this time softly, almost to his glass.
“Just an old soul who’s bored and sick of being alone.”
“What do you want?”
“Redemption? A second shot at glory? I haven’t decided yet. For now I’d settle for a fun night.”
“People are going to think I’m crazy if I sit here talking to my drink all night.” Dale watched a bead of condensation run down the glass like sweat on a brow.
“Then drink it instead,” said the voice. “I’ll find you when I’m ready.”
Dale swallowed. This was weird and unsettling and he should leave. But his curiosity kept him in his seat, and when he did try the drink, he found it cool and fruity, with just a hint of bitterness underneath, and something rich, too, as smooth and sultry as the voice that only he could hear.
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No one had seen him enter the dark, smokey room filled with loud voices and laughter. Mason paused in the doorway unobserved to scan the room. The familiar faces should have meant he was safe but he knew one was not as he appeared.
The woodsmoke hung heavy in layers. Evidently, the one who built the fire had to be reminded to open the draft. He could understand how the fire-maker, probably his mother, might have been distracted. She was in animated conversation on the couch now, her grey hair flyaway as always but in the candlelight her eyes alert and smiling. She wore a sweater against the chill, and some wore coats, but guests were starting to shed them. They were all in thick socks, their boot standing in puddles of melting snow in the mudroom.
Mason knew the moment he was recognized. His brother was telling his story and had most of the attention in the room, so when he paused, they all looked over. The room got still.
His mother was the first to move. She scooted forward on the couch and got stiffly to her feet. The crowd moved aside as she powered toward him, arms out wide.
“Mason! Oh, Mason! You’re here?” She buried her face in his shoulder as he held her. He looked over her shoulder into the shadows.
Finally, she let go and held him at arm’s length, her eyes moist. She held his gaze with a hint of steel. “My dear, I’m not going to ask you to explain why the state police were chasing you and why you didn’t stop. Later. But right now, we’re all glad you are here.”
She looked around and laughed shakily. “What a night to come home! Your brothers are here. So is Andy! We’ve been without power going on four days now and we all decided this afternoon to pool our resources and come up here to the big house until power is restored.”
She stepped aside and one by one his two brothers and their wives came up to hug him. Last came his best friend from high school, Andy. As he approached, the lights suddenly came on and they all saw the gun in Andy’s hand.
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“No one had seen him enter the dark, smokey room filled with loud voices and laughter.
Especially not me, sitting at the bar swirling a snifter of bourbon as if I could read the tea leaves in it. It was an occasional pleasure for me to people-watch at a busy venue, but this evening I was in a contemplative mood, pensive perhaps.
The feeling in the room had changed, becoming suddenly electric. I looked around but saw only the usual suspects: a couple in the corner quietly arguing, a young man explaining something to his girl, two golfers enjoying a post game Scotch, a group of young adults celebrating. I went back to my swirling, though I could not shake the feeling that I had missed something or someone.
The amber liquid in my glass caught my attention again and I laughed at myself for thinking it held any answers.
That feeling again, like goosebumps. A man sat on a stool a few down from me. He had on an expensive looking fedora. He did not look at me, only at the bartender when he asked for Absinthe on the rocks. He sipped cautiously. His fingers were slender. He rested his head on his hands, elbows on the bar. Bored? Depressed? Fatigued? I could not tell. I could not stare for long worried that he would see. He seemed familiar.
I ordered another Bourbon, not because I wanted to get sloshed, I wanted to buy time. I wanted to know who this guy was. The din in the bar continued and so did the silence between us. Finally, for lack of anything wittier to say, I said, “I like your fedora.” “Trilby,” he said in a British a accent, not looking at me.
The electricity I felt earlier must have been of my own making. No one else seemed interested in this fellow or in me. The Bourbon was keeping its own secrets. I suppose the Absinthe was, too.
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