Page 73 of Last Letters to Ara
He wanted me to live my life while I was young and enjoy every moment and somehow, tonight in my grief-addled brain, that translates into going to a hipster bar.
I’m an idiot.
I might as well get some food and have a drink before going home. At least that way the drive would be worth it. The bar is mostly empty when I exit the bathroom and spot an open stool in front of a male bartender.
“What can I get for you?”
It’s funny because a few months ago, I would have salivated over this guy. He’s emitting bad boy danger without even trying, making it all that more attractive. His black hair is straight, so perfectly disheveled that it must have been done on purpose. His features are almost too striking, refusing to conform to what is believed to be beauty, and from the bits I can see peeking out from his sleeves and collar, he iscoveredin tattoos.
Full sleeves and a large chest piece at the very least. His pale white skin creates an even starker contrast against his black nose piercing and dark features. You can tell he’d rather use his body for expression, rather than what may appeal to others.
Yet here I sit, none of this doinganythingfor me, because a certain set of green eyes belonging to a witty gentleman have thoroughly ruined the appeal for me entirely. “Do you have food?”
“Yeah, but it’s mainly just appetizers.” I can tell he’s bored here, hoping an interesting customer comes in to provide some entertainment.
Sorry, dude, it won’t be me.
“That’s the best kind.” He passes me a menu and I look over it for a moment. “Can I have the boneless wings, fried pickles, and tater tots?”
He raises his brows.
“What?” I’ve had a shit enough day, I don’t need someone questioning my choice in comfort food.
“Anything to drink?”
“Not yet, I should get some food into me first.”
“Sure thing.” He grabs the menu, leaving me alone.
Always alone.
Squirting hand sanitizer into a papercut would be a better idea, but I open my phone to pass the time by looking through my pictures of Dad. It took quite a lot to collect the few I have. Neither of us were into having our photos taken, but thankfully we still managed to get some good ones over the years.
It’s crazy how a moment is captured, and as that shutter snaps, preserving the memory forever, you never know how much it will come to mean one day. Being able to look back and see the gleam of mischief in their eyes or the lines from their smiles.
My phone slips from my hand and I accidentally tap the top of the screen, sending my camera roll to the very beginning. A blurred video close to the top catches my eye, so I tap on it.
Tears flood my eyes as the unmistakable sound of Dad’s laughter fills my little spot at the bar. Covering my mouth, I hold the speaker closer to my ear, letting the sound consume me. I had recorded this one night when he wasn’t looking as he watched one of his favorite TV shows. Another moment I’d once thought insignificant, now meaning everything.
Tears begin to fall, and I know that I can’t do this in public. Swiping out of the video, I open a picture of Dad as a young man in Australia, his 80’s mustache never failing to make me smile, even now through the leftover tears.
“Who’s in the picture?”
I glare up at the bartender. “You realize that it’s beyond inappropriate to look at a stranger’s pictures?”
He shrugs. “I would’ve looked away if it was your tits in the photo.”
“How considerate of you.”
“He’s a good-looking guy, isn’t he?” His question manages to slightly quell my irritation. Something tells me that this bartender has learned not to care what anyone thinks, and you either love him or hate him for it.
I haven’t decided where I stand.
With a sigh and swipe at the lingering dampness on my cheeks, I turn my phone for him to see the photo better. “It’s an old photo of my dad, and hewasgood-looking, though he probably never noticed.”
“Was?”
“Yeah.Was.” I hate that word.
