She sat in the corner, facing the wall, with a woven shawl draped over her shoulders. I sipped my whiskey and watched her from the couch. Her hair shimmered in the flickering candlelight. The room was mostly quiet, but I could hear her crying. She tried to hide it, but couldn't. I didn't approach her. I just drained my glass and looked away to a large painting hanging on the wall opposite me. It had a tarnished bronze frame, but was quaint all the same. I heard her chair slide back and turned my head. She stood up, wiped her eyes, and turned around.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Don't be. It's fine. I don't mind."
"It's rude."
"It isn't."
She walked toward me, swiping at a few stray tears. "More?" She nodded at my glass.
"Sure. I'm not one to reject free whiskey." I smiled, tried to lighten the mood.
"Oh, I know," she said. And she offered a half-smile, but it was disingenuous.
But she was trying.
She took my glass from me and walked over to the mantle. She took a decanter down and filled my tumbler. She didn't return the decanter to the place she had gotten it. Instead, she just set it down on a nearby end table and returned to me. She gave me my glass and then sat down on a wooden chair she had pulled from her writing desk earlier that night and faced me.
She didn't say anything though. Not right away. She just sat there and watched me. I was somewhat uncomfortable so I drank a little faster than I might have otherwise (it was a very good bourbon) and finally decided to strike up a conversation. Anything would be better than this.
"So I heard it's supposed to snow in a couple of days."
"Oh? In March? I've never known of it to snow in March."
"It happens," I said.
It was clear that she was disengaged and disinterested.
Really? The fuckin' weather. You couldn't come up with somethin' a little better than the fuckin' weather?
"What's wrong? And don't say that it isn't anything because people don't tend to just sit around and cry for no reason."
"It's a long story."
"The whiskey is flowing and there are plenty of cigarettes and dawn's still five and half hours away. I have the time if you have the patience."
She looked at me for a moment, but didn't say anything. Then she sighed.
"Do you ever feel like there's nothing left for you? You know? Like there's no hope for anything? You don't want to be at home, but you don't want to be anywhere else either? It's kind of like you're feeling dislocated and out of place literally everywhere you go?"
I took a sip from my glass and nodded. "Yeah. I'm familiar with that feeling."
"I wonder what that's all about?"
"I don't know. Maybe it's just about us, you know? The way we see things. I don't think it's the world, but something we harbor within ourselves. I know that sounds hokey as fuck, but it's what I think."
She nodded slowly, as if she understood, but didn't necessarily agree.
"What did I do wrong?"
"What do you mean?"
"What did I do wrong? What did I do that was so goddamned fuckin' awful that I deserve this kind of pain?"
"I don't think that's how it works, lady."
"Then how does it work?"
I shook my head, took another shot, and then said, "I wish I knew."
There was a drawn silence that lasted quite awhile, but I didn't really notice it so much this time around. She was still staring at me the way she was before, but it wasn't disconcerting this time. It wasn't anything. I finished my drink.
"More?"
I nodded. "If you don't mind."
She refilled the glass and brought it back.
"This is a good whiskey," I said. "What kind is it?"
"Pappy Van Winkle."
"That shit's expensive."
"Yeah," she said. "But it'll be fine. I didn't need the money for anything else."
"Well, damn. Now I almost hate to drink it. But just almost."
I took a sip and she smiled.
And nothing else was said that night. At some point, the liquor finally kicked and I kissed her, which I probably shouldn't have done in retrospect. But I did. And she kissed back. And I tried to pick her up, but was just too drunk and fell backwards with her. We landed on the couch, but ended up in the floor and I took her there without a single regret.
I fell asleep there. I'm not sure that she did. But I awoke at some point in the night--something like three o'clock maybe--and I heard the shower running down the hall. I sat down on the couch and put on my shoes and slipped quietly out the door. I sent her a text that said "goodnight" from my car and then I pulled out of her driveway and left.
That evening, I received a call from her friend. They had found her in the bathroom, with the shower running. She had taken a bottle of pills. I don't know what kind they were. And I don't suppose it really matters now because dead is dead regardless.
I didn't sleep that night or the night after or the night after that. I had left her there. I had gotten up and fucking left her there. I don't know why I did it. I swear to God. I wasn't scared of her and I didn't leave to be an asshole. I left because I didn't want to burden her, maybe. I didn't want her to think that I was going to get attached and stay forever. I didn't want her to think that I expected anything of her. That's all I can figure. But I should have stayed. I could have saved her. I had spent so many nights talking to her on the phone, visiting her at home. Trying to save her. I tried. Or I thought that's what I was doing. But I failed. I failed in every respect. She had planned it. She knew what she was going to do, but just didn't tell me. But I should have known. I should have fucking known. The bottle, the gown she was wearing--just the money she had spent in the last two days alone should have been my cue. But I was oblivious. Just too damned dense to catch it. If I had just knocked on the bathroom door to say goodnight before I left instead of sending the text from the car, I could have saved her life. And I'll never forgive myself for what happened to her. If I live to be a hundred years old, I will still hold onto that guilt. One choice. If I had just done one tiny, seemingly inconsequential thing differently, she wouldn't have died alone on some dingy bathroom floor. I think about it. I think about it a lot. And I just don't know what to make of it. How does one make an informed decision when everything is so unpredictable?
My conclusion? You don't. You just spin the cylinder, put the gun to your head, pull the trigger, and hope for the best. Whether you're hoping for that little click that tells you you're still alive or you have your heart set on finding that round. It's all such a gamble.
All of it.
Every last damned thing about this life.
Such a fucking gamble.