tonywalt
06-23-2025, 09:13 AM
Marla woke late, the sheets tangled, the room thick with the hangover of sleep. Sunlight came in crooked across the blinds. She pulled on black jeans, a sweater thin enough to feel the air through it. No makeup, no calls to make. A day shapeless as an untied shoe.
She parked at the mall, third level, west side — her usual spot. The parking lot was half-empty, the sky white and washed-out.
Inside, the place felt like a waiting room for the forgotten — mothers with strollers, old men on benches, teenagers dissolving into the escalators.
She bought a coffee that tasted of cardboard and wandered toward the bookstore.
That’s where she saw him.
A man leaning too long over a table marked Summer Reads. He had that tired elegance — gray at the edges, shirt half-pressed, collar open. A man not quite comfortable in the middle of a weekday afternoon.
She reached for a novel — thin, sharp-edged. He reached too.
“Go ahead,” he said. His voice was low, worn like a favorite coat. “I’m not really here for books.”
“Neither am I.”
They drifted together, as if by gravity, past shelves and soft music. At the exit he said, “There’s a bar down the road. Not the ones in here — a real bar. You want to go?”
It was too early. The best time.
He drove. She followed — past the chain restaurants, the overgrown lots. The place was called Red’s — an old sign leaning against the sky.
Inside: stale beer, neon, a jukebox leaning into Patsy Cline. They sat at the bar.
He ordered whiskey, neat. She asked for gin and soda. No one cared. No one watched.
Two drinks in, he said, “I’m married.”
She traced her finger around the rim of her glass. “Not my business.”
“Not unhappily. Not happily either. You?”
She smiled thin. “Single. Which is its own kind of unhappiness.”
The drinks went down easy, the way they do when the day has nothing left to ask of you.
They talked. Or didn’t. Stories that circled but didn’t land. She told him she used to write poetry. He said he once lived by the sea.
The jukebox switched to Dylan. The ice melted. Afternoon slipped toward the long stretch of evening.
At some point, they stood, unsteady but not drunk. Paid cash. Outside, the light had gone lavender. The highway hummed in the distance.
In the parking lot, she looked at him. “Where are you going?”
He shook his head. “Anywhere but back.”
She nodded.
Two engines started. No phone numbers. No promises.
The road took them. Two cars sliding into the violet dark — a man, a woman, the taste of whiskey, the weight of an afternoon burned down to nothing, the mall left behind like a forgotten stanza.
She parked at the mall, third level, west side — her usual spot. The parking lot was half-empty, the sky white and washed-out.
Inside, the place felt like a waiting room for the forgotten — mothers with strollers, old men on benches, teenagers dissolving into the escalators.
She bought a coffee that tasted of cardboard and wandered toward the bookstore.
That’s where she saw him.
A man leaning too long over a table marked Summer Reads. He had that tired elegance — gray at the edges, shirt half-pressed, collar open. A man not quite comfortable in the middle of a weekday afternoon.
She reached for a novel — thin, sharp-edged. He reached too.
“Go ahead,” he said. His voice was low, worn like a favorite coat. “I’m not really here for books.”
“Neither am I.”
They drifted together, as if by gravity, past shelves and soft music. At the exit he said, “There’s a bar down the road. Not the ones in here — a real bar. You want to go?”
It was too early. The best time.
He drove. She followed — past the chain restaurants, the overgrown lots. The place was called Red’s — an old sign leaning against the sky.
Inside: stale beer, neon, a jukebox leaning into Patsy Cline. They sat at the bar.
He ordered whiskey, neat. She asked for gin and soda. No one cared. No one watched.
Two drinks in, he said, “I’m married.”
She traced her finger around the rim of her glass. “Not my business.”
“Not unhappily. Not happily either. You?”
She smiled thin. “Single. Which is its own kind of unhappiness.”
The drinks went down easy, the way they do when the day has nothing left to ask of you.
They talked. Or didn’t. Stories that circled but didn’t land. She told him she used to write poetry. He said he once lived by the sea.
The jukebox switched to Dylan. The ice melted. Afternoon slipped toward the long stretch of evening.
At some point, they stood, unsteady but not drunk. Paid cash. Outside, the light had gone lavender. The highway hummed in the distance.
In the parking lot, she looked at him. “Where are you going?”
He shook his head. “Anywhere but back.”
She nodded.
Two engines started. No phone numbers. No promises.
The road took them. Two cars sliding into the violet dark — a man, a woman, the taste of whiskey, the weight of an afternoon burned down to nothing, the mall left behind like a forgotten stanza.