The Main Character

MC found herself at Simon’s. Simon’s was a nice spot with cheap drinks. The barstools were crushed dark-blue velvet and the shelves were held up by bleached antlers. Black and cream colored candles lit the entire bar and made it smell like a musky forest. Or, it would have if the bar itself did not smell like tequila and cigarettes. Overall, the combination was actually quite grotesque but, for the sake of ambiance, the clientele pretended not to notice.

MC and Rémy first started drinking at Simon’s 10 years ago, after escaping a party hosted by their mutual friend Karen. That’s how Rémy and MC became friends in the first place. They both ditched Karen’s party to escape its self-importance. They commiserated, drank, and somewhat ignored each other, but that is what made them both comfortable. They had been close friends ever since. Ever since now.

MC could not remember how she got there, but at that moment, it did not really seem to matter and she really did not care. She sat down on a stool at the bar’s corner and stupidly ordered two cocktails. The bartender neglected to swipe her wrist for payment, it was ‘on the house’. The drinks were placed on blue square napkins, one of which had a note written on it. MC drank them both. Gin and tonic of course. G&T, what a surprise. She took no notice of the note.

There was a bee stuck in the wax of the candle next to her that made her think of Quinn. She had no clue why. She truly could not untangle the connection her brain had made to him but she wished he was there. The two drinks quickly became three, and so on and so on until she was disoriented. She reveled in the burn and the resulting numbness that the alcohol caused equally. It eventually got to her eyes. The burn made her eyes water…at least that was what she told herself.

Her mind tried to unpack the events of the day:

’He was just here. He’d have liked to have been here now. So, why isn’t he?

It doesn’t make any sense. I was just talking to him...and now what? I can’t ever talk to him again? I don’t believe that. He’s going to walk over here and sit down next to me and order shitty vodka and complain about how terrible that gig was. Why wouldn’t he?

Because he’s dead?

Says who?

Who got to decide that?

I want to have a word with them. They’re an idiot.’

By the time her mind had quieted and she became more cognizant of her presence in the bar, she could feel what felt like at least six eyes on her. However, when she looked over her shoulder, she only saw the two green-brown eyes belonging to Quinn. He stuck out terribly in his long-sleeved button-up and well-groomed facial hair. Most of the other customers were more grunge punk than office clerk, though there was a woman in the corner who gave off a more ‘emo-vampire’ vibe. He sat down on a neighboring stool but still towered over her. He was a tall, broad, and muscly guy. A body-type seldom seen in Sector 7. Most people were either a kind of sinewy thin associated with heroin addicts or else rocking the ever depressing ‘dad-bod’. Quinn was definitely the most fit man in the bar despite being one of the oldest. Like MC, he was 33, though he certainly did not seem it.

“Where did you come from?” she asked, a bit startled and a bit drunk. Drunk enough to momentarily muse the idea that she had summoned him with her mind. When that moment passed, she took another to contemplate her own stupidity. Things like this happened all the time, she knew that. She had a journal about it. ‘Coincidences of the world’ were what her little sister used to call them before she died. She liked to keep track of those coincidences ever since. They made her feel special and like her sister was the one making them happen just to make her happy. Not knowing or caring if Quinn had responded, she continued “Rémy is dead, you know.”

None of her words were especially clear, but Quinn got the gist.

“Geeze, I’m sorry”, he breathed. “It seemed like he was probably next up. How’d it happen?”

MC ignored his strange and insensitive remark and kept speaking. Her words were more for her own benefit, a healing process, rather than for the sake of explaining it to Quinn. “He wound up with his violin baton in his eye.” That’s what MC tried to say, but that sentence is pretty difficult and she was fairly drunk. This time Quinn had virtually no idea what she had said so he just responded generically.

“Oh wow. That’s not good”, he said stupidly.

“Mmm, no. Not particularly.” She horrifically butchered the pronunciation of particularly. It sounded more like furniture pea. She was breathing heavily out of her nose. He knew she was drunk. It was a tell-tale sign.

“Do they know what killed him?”

“Probably the fucking baton. In his fucking eye.” She looked at him crossed eyebrows before shaking her head at him.

“Alright, you know what I mean. Like was it an accident. Did he fall on it, or was he stabbed or what?”

“I don’t know! I’m not fucking Ghandi. Or God I mean. Whatever. Nnn-Maybe he passed out and…or…and just fell on it, or had a random fucking aneurism or something! Pfff, I don’t know.” She was gesticulating with her hands a lot. “I left. I expect it’ll be in the papers tomorrow though. We can read all about it. Want to have a drink with me?” She slumped a bit on her stool at the end.

He said nothing, just looked at her. At that moment, she reminded him of a well-loved book that had been left out in the rain.

“Fine then, can you just take me home?” She knew she’d had enough.

“Of course,” he replied tenderly, sorry for her sadness. As she got off her stool she paused.

“Wait.” She said sternly, as if she had remembered something or had something important to say. “I have to go to the bathroom.” Quinn sighed. He watched as she walked past the end of the bar to where the woman’s restroom was. Just as MC reached for the handle, the door swung open, almost knocking her off of her unsteady feet. All at once, MC felt two sets of hands on her. One pair belonged to Quinn who had seen what happened and subsequently rushed over. The other pair belonged to the woman who had swung open said door. MC could tell from the parts of her moon shaped face that were not covered by her dark hair that the woman looked overly strained by the interaction. Before either even had a chance to apologize, Quinn was leading MC out of the bar. “You need to go home now.” He was holding her up much more aggressively than she felt she needed to be held up, but before she knew it they were outside.

During their walk, MC made a mental note to write in her journal when she got back - why was Quinn there? He hated Simon’s and hardly drank anyway. It was lucky that he was or she probably would have ended up asleep on the bar.

They made their way up to her place. It overlooked the river. It was so much neater and organized than Rémy’s had been. Although the walls were covered with sketches, old photographs, a hand-made Ouija board, and a pair of old ballet slippers and nearly every surface had a small pile of either books or art paraphernalia on it, there was order and a sense of cleanliness. There were no clothes strewn about or cabinet doors left open. It was peaceful.

The peaceful nature of MC’s apartment was of course disrupted by the ruckus both Quinn and MC made upon entering. She had been teasing him on the walk over about his love of girly movies, saying if he was staying over they were not going to watch one. He protested adamantly, “Romantic comedies are much better to watch when you’re drunk than scary movies! You’ll fall asleep before the end bit where they kill the monster and have nightmares! You know you will! You literally do every time!” They were both laughing as he spoke. She knew he was right.

MC tried to jokingly shove Quinn, but he grabbed her wrists. Suddenly, the mood changed. She decided not to pull away. They were standing very close. When he did let go of her wrists she kept them pressed against his chest.

“Take this off,” she said, meaning his shirt. Her voice was soft and creaky. “Let’s have a sleepover.” She took her own shirt off, pulled off her pants, wormed her way under her comforter. With her eyes half open she spied an unfinished bottle of wine on the bedside table. She pulled it closer to the bed but didn’t drink from it. She already felt nothing, there was no point in continuing a downward spiral that would only end in nausea and vomiting. Nothing was fine. But something warm and nice like Quinn could change that. They had sleepovers before when drunk. They both enjoyed sleeping next to someone, so he agreed to stay over. At first planning on just cuddling, she eventually changed her mind and pursued a night of regrettable decisions. They both should have known better. But it was a comfort, nonetheless.

MC woke up the next morning with a throbbing headache and a vague memory of the night before. She looked over to see Quinn lying awake next to her. His immense body took up most of the bed. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. When he saw the look on her face, he grimaced.

“You too? My head may literally explode...Well, this was not how I thought this was going to happen. It’s straight out of right field,” he laughed. “You?”

Quinn was her oldest friend. Oldest living friend. They first met when she moved into her apartment 14 years ago, before she was really an artist. Since then Quinn had become one of MC’s closest comrades. The longevity of their plutonic relationship may have been the result of being a landlord rather than an artist, musician, or playwright. Playing property man was not an especially creative or heavily depressing job. Oddly, both creativity and depression were qualities MC found attractive in men. Either way, MC had had a boyfriend for most of their knowing each other so they had always been friends. Great friends. They loved each other. But he did have an annoying habit of misquoting common phrases. She hated it because it made him seem significantly less intelligent than he really was. He was a smart guy. He just happened to also be a giant goober.

“Probably not the best way for it to happen, to be honest.” She stared numbly and unconsciously at the reflection they cast in the mirror across the room. Smart move, real classy. “Actually, I think it’d be best if you left.”

As good of a friend as Quinn was, his pride got the better of him. The warmness in his face froze over as he gathered his things, exposing a balding spot on the back of his head. He wasn’t one to protest but she could tell he disagreed with her request by the way his lips pouted slightly like a scolded toddler. She ignored him and gathered the sheets and pillows to her as a kind of fortress as he moved around the bedroom. She took the opportunity to admire his body. She had never seen before in its entirety. It almost made her regret her last words. He was a tall and fit man with trimmed chest hair and clipped nails. In short, he was classically handsome. He looked cleaner than most guys, though she could not say exactly why. Maybe it was because he did not have any tattoos, or maybe it was because he was one of the few guys she knew that still had an optimistic glow about them. At that thought, MC once again considered calling him back to her bed but paused. She needed a break from people today so she could grasp what happened the night before.

“Uh, Quinn,” she blurted much louder than she meant, “do you want to skip Thursday night movie this week? We can pick it up next week.” Quinn did not even flinch.

“I’ve got a date next week,” Quinn replied, turning his head as he bent down to pick up his sock, which was actually hers, but MC did not think it would be good to tell him. He was not lying about his date, but he was aware that that was how it seemed. Unable to find the words to communicate this to MC, he continued searching for his clothes. They were both struggling with their hangovers. They had finished all the beer in her fridge in the breaks between…The silence held as he walked out of her apartment, down the stairs, and entered his own home exactly below hers. It remained for a few minutes longer as both reflected on the events of the previous night. Then, they used radios and TV’s to drown out such thoughts.

She heard him clanking around with his free weights and knew he was upset. Quinn, as beautiful of a man as he was, had all the grace of a German Shepard puppy when he was angry. It was as if his brain was unable to both hold onto anger and comprehend his strength/size. There was nothing she could, or rather, was willing to do about his mood today. She burrowed into her white duvet, surrounded herself with pillows, and resolved to spend the day in bed watching bad movies and eating any and everything she had in the house. “When was the last time I even went grocery shopping?” She thought to herself, “I can’t remember.” Defeated, she flopped down and screeched like a steamed carrot.