Kane

I stare into the eyes of the girl by my side, and I watch them fill up as surely as if someone has turned on a tap in her brain.

“Oh shit.” I watch with alarm as her bottom lip trembles. “What did I say?”

“Nothing. It’s not you. I’m sorry.” She fumbles in her purse for a tissue, and blows her nose. “I broke up with my boyfriend this evening, that’s all.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” It’s a half truth. I’m sorry she’s upset. But I can’t deny that my heart’s doing a tap dance at the knowledge that she’s single.

She gestures at the barman, who pours her another drink. Vodka and coffee liqueur--what’s that called? A Black Russian? She’s even getting drunk elegantly.

She takes a sip, then gives me a small smile. “I’m the one who should apologize. I’m sure you didn’t come here tonight to have a pathetic woman wailing on your shoulder.”

“A pathetic beautiful woman.” I watch her eyes widen. “Too obvious?”

She might only be wearing scruffy sweatpants and a shapeless jacket, and her dark hair is scraped off her face in a bun, and her face is pale and devoid of makeup, but that doesn’t take away the fact that she’s beautiful. It radiates through her unhappiness and sorrow. It reminds me of when I was a kid and I used to cut out shapes on a piece of card and place it over a torch, throwing the shapes onto the wall--light always finds a way.

Looking confused, she turns her gaze back to her drink. The poor girl. She’s just broken up with her boyfriend and now some stranger in a bar is hitting on her.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, “do you want me to go?”

She sucks her bottom lip for a moment. Then, with a side glance at me, she gives a little shake of her head.

I blow out a breath, finish my whisky, and gesture to the barman for another. After he’s passed me the glass with the half inch of pale Ardbeg Islay malt whisky coating several blocks of ice, I turn to face the woman at my side.

“Would you like to talk about it? Or would you rather me distract you with inane facts?”

Her lips curve up. She’s gathered herself together a bit, and her eyes are no longer watery, although she’s still having trouble focusing. I wonder whether she’s telling the truth about having taken medication. If that is the case, she probably shouldn’t be drinking, but a) it’s none of my business, and b) she’s obviously miserable and doesn’t care at the moment, and I can understand that.

“Not much to say,” she advises. “We broke up. There. Done.”

“No chance it’ll all blow over in the morning?”

She takes a big swallow of her drink. “Not this time.”

“So you’ve broken up before?”

“Yeah, a few times.”

“So what makes you think it’s final now?”

She’s sitting right up against the wall, and she leans back on it, looking suddenly tired. She surveys me thoughtfully. “Are you in a relationship?”

“Not at the moment.”

“You’ve lived with someone, though?”

“Yes. I was married for five years.”

“Did you argue a lot?”

“No. I’m a pretty placid sort of guy.”

Her lips twist. “That must be nice. Dan and I bickered all the time, and then occasionally things would get out of hand and we’d have a scream-the-house-down, throwing-all-the-dinner-plates kind of argument. We’d shout and rant and rail, and then we’d make up. My parents were the same, and so I just assumed it was what you did, you know?”

“Lots of relationships are like that. People let off steam in an argument, right?”

“Yeah. We broke up a while ago, lots of door slamming and yelling and walking out, but eventually we got back together. I thought it might clear the air.”

“What happened?”

“I got tired of all the drama. He was so prickly--I was constantly having to watch what I said in case I provoked him. It was exhausting. He just wore me out.”

“You broke up with him,” I observe, hiding my surprise. I’d assumed from the fact that she was in a bar that he’d dumped her.

“I guess I prompted it, but it was kind of a joint decision. He certainly didn’t argue. I’d just had enough. He used to nag me a lot about my work. I’m one of the directors of a telecommunications company. I work late most nights and I go to functions--it’s the nature of the job. We deal with a lot of investors and clients. He hated it when I wasn’t home. He was constantly nagging me to leave early, and when I said I was busy, he’d say he had an important job too but he was always able to make time for me…”

She leans her elbow on the bar and rests her head on her hand. “It’s just too hard. It shouldn’t be this hard, should it?” Tears glisten in her eyes.

“I don’t think so, but then I’m hardly a guru when it comes to relationships.” I stifle a sigh. Even though she broke up with him, it sounds like she still loves him. “Can you talk to him about it? Explain that you want to stay with him, but that he’ll have to accept your working hours?”

Her eyes harden, and she sits back up and finishes off her drink. “No. I’m upset it’s over, but he said some pretty cruel things to me. He made me feel cold and selfish, and I know I’m not either of those things. Or at least, if I was, it was him who made me that way. Does that make sense?”

“I think so. I think life is about finding someone who makes you feel like the best version of you it’s possible to be.”

She studies my face, then, and her expression softens. “‘The best version of you it’s possible to be.’ That’s a beautiful way to put it.”

“I have a way with words. I think I wrote that for a greeting card.”

She laughs and gestures to the barman. “Another?”

I hesitate. She’s slurring her words, and I don’t want her to come to harm. “It’s none of my business, I know, but you said you were taking medication…”

“Just one more. I’m not quite numb enough yet. It still hurts.” Her smile fades.

“Sounds as if you’re well shot of him,” I advise, gesturing to the barman for another whisky, and sliding him my credit card.

“Yeah. I should be happy, shouldn’t I? I should be dancing and singing la la la, I’m young, free, and single…” She stares into her drink.

“Your relationship has ended. It’s okay to grieve. To be sad. It takes a while to get over any loss. And then one day it’ll feel better, and you’ll be able to move on.”

“I want it to go away,” she whispers, laying a hand over her heart. “It hurts so much.”

“I know. It will. Just go with it. It’ll pass.”

She closes her eyes for a moment. Then she opens them and turns her head to look at me. She smiles slowly. “You’re very kind.”

“My fatal flaw.”

“You’re sweet.”

“Kind and sweet. Two words every guy wants to be called by the most beautiful woman in the bar.”

She gives a short laugh and props her head on a hand again. “So why are you single? Why did your five-year marriage come to an end?”