She glanced around the strung-out bar. The place was small and dark, deserted in the corner she had pressed herself into. The dim light above the bartender flickered furiously. She took another deep breath. The smell of wainscot mixing with the tangy scent of leather settled her mind.
The whiskey glass impacted forcefully on the wooden countertop. Heather froze. Red liquid danced lively between the crystal edges. A few drops had spilled over the rim.
"Three fifty," demanded the woman.
Heather's eyes softened. She looked angelic under the yellow light; her black eyes piercing Heather’s. She swallowed and fumbled four dollars onto the counter.
"Keep the change," she rasped.
Her finger slid over the wet rim and came back tinted red. Heather licked the residue off the tip and pushed the glass to the side.
Her pocket vibrated; Heather’s hands shook as her phone screen lit up. Nina had written.
Already in Idaho?
She rolled her eyes.
Stop tracking me, she wrote back.
Not tracking you. The fumes told me.
She laughed, lifting her finger to reply something witty, when: "Is that your Volvo outside?"
"Uh," Heather stuttered. To her right stood a tall and broad man whose stance told her all about his drinking history.
She swallowed. "Why?"
"Cute dent," he shrugged and sat down onto the stool next to her. Great. Heather put her phone away.
He pointed at her drink. "Negroni? You want another?"
"Thanks," her lips pressed tight, she pulled the glass closer.
"Where’s it from? Sheep? Wolf?"
"Deer, actually," she sighed.
"Ah… Nice car, though. Well kept for a classic"
"I don’t sell"
"Whoa, I don’t intend to buy," he put his hands up and lowered his eyes, "Your car, that is"
Heather nodded: "So, you’re... what? A dealer?"
"Well, kind of," He deflected, bogusly nonchalant, "I’m no expert, but I know a gem when I see one. You must be keeping good care of her. Well, except for…"
"That deer," they nodded.
"Heirloom," Heather winced. His features softened. Slowly, his hand came to rest over her own.
"I’m sorry," he said as Heather ripped her hand away. "Don’t be"
She nipped at her drink. Too bitter, she thought and put it back down. When she looked at the man again, he was still smiling.
"I crashed a deer once, yeah," he said. "That was... strange. I came from that roadhouse, that one over there, outside. I had driven half a mile and had an animal under my car. Beautiful creatures. The blood seeped onto the icy asphalt. It was so cold, the warm air rose from its guts. It was strange seeing them up close. They’re creatures to be observed far away," he slurred and drank.
Heather wriggled about on the bar stool.
"I wanted to drive on, I was on holiday, but I just couldn’t. I couldn’t leave it there – I had to call the wildlife services. I mean, you don’t just ignore an angel laying to the sides"
A grating scratch cut through the air as the jukebox rotated its tunes. Billy Joel’s grainy voice filled the room to Heather’s grimaces.
"But I never drove on," the man said, "I wanted to see Seattle, but I never did. I just drove south. Reminds me, though, of the regret. I really regret it. I should have let it rot to the sides"
Wow, okay, Heather thought, What a fucking freak. But even more importantly: "It would have come back," she whispered.
"Excuse me?"
"It would have come back," she cleared her throat.
He scoffed. "I like you strange types. You reek of regret"
His gaze sat on her chest like bricks.
"What?"
"No, sure. You know what I mean," he waved her away.
"No, not quite, actually. And if you don’t mind, I’d actually much rather drink in peace. Thank you"
"You must be fun at parties," he mumbled.
"I’m just not a sentimental drunk"
The man hooked his feet into her barstool, turned it with the flick of his ankle and forced her to look at him.
"But you seem that way," he observed, "You seem sad. You seem to be pulled down by something"
Heather bared her teeth. "Oh, really? Do I? May that be because I'm getting lectured by a drunkard?"
"Hey," he spat, "Watch your mouth! I’m not a drunkard. You don’t know me!"
"You’re right. I don’t. And I don't have any obligations towards you. Good night"
She slammed the drink onto the counter and slid off the stool.
His viscious voice kept sneering: "You’re drunk, you can’t drive away. Gotta stay the night"
"And you're a loser"
"Not a sore one though. Come on. Heather. Heather, right? What's with the regret?"
Her shoulders flinched; she turned around. "How do you know my name?" She yelled. There was no escape, Heather noticed. Well done, she thought, you’ve got a talent for driving yourself into a corner.
"I don’t want to play your stupid games," she bit.
His smug veneer remained. "Tough luck, baby. Regret," he stabbed her sternum with his pointer finger, "Regret, that doesn't wash away"
And there laid the truth of it. The cold, unbearable truth of it, as John Coltrane blared into the silence Billy Joel left behind.
"So, I," he began himself, "I regret never having done something"
Her face contorted in horror: "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
He wasn't really talking about a missed sweetheart, was he?
"Are you always this pathetic?" Her sharp tone silenced him.
"You're funny," he laughed, "I mean something that mattered. Something real that makes you important to remember. Most people regret this. Funny right? The most impactful people must have said: I regret never having done something. Hey!"
He snapped his fingers under Heather’s nose. "Your turn, come on. Quit pretending I’m boring you"
"My dad used to say that, although real perfection is impossible to achieve, a good and honest try is worth just as much"
"Was he religious? Your dad?"
"Yes, I guess," she laughed, "Why?"
"Just seemed that way"
She ran a fingernail over the empty glass.
"He used to like the stories about Job and fate. He used to hate the stories about saviours and wonders"
"Why?"
"Because, I figure it made much of the pain seem more like a task, rather than tough luck," she turned to him, "My mother died early. When you want to be remembered, someone has to carry that burden"
Silence rang between them. Ordering a second beer, he turned to her: "And you?"
"Hm?"
"Are you religious?"
Chewing on her lip, she took a deep breath.
"I used to ogle the angel paintings and descriptions. I liked everything holy because it was a simple concept. Kids my age wanted to become an astronaut. I wanted to become a saint," she grinned, "I didn’t know it wouldn’t pay, then"
Silence.
"Well," Heather sighed, "As much fun as this was, I’ll get out of your hair," she said and nearly, nearly managed to leave the encounter behind, but his swift fingers wrapping around her wrist stopped her at the very last minute.
"You haven't answered my question!"
She ripped her hand free and slammed it down onto the counter. "Okay, smartass. I regret not being closer to my sister. There. Happy?"
His eyebrows lifted. "Is she dead?"
"What?"
"The only reason you’d be saying that is because she’s either dead already or halfway there. So, when’s her due date?"
A shove to his shoulder and his back collided with the bar counter. Heather leant above his cowering face: "Screw you, asshole"
His tongue wet his lips. "Insults are not the way to sainthood"
"How can you say something so fucked up to a stranger? I was wrong today. A good and honest try couldn't save you. It wouldn’t work"
She unlocked her fingers from his jacket.
"And just so you know," she spat, "You were wrong too. It’s not her who’s dying. It’s me. Good night"