Meat Market

I never expected to be a barfly, but it turned out to be a pretty good life choice.

Six year old Sarah expected to be a Disney princess. Hell, I looked like one; Snow White to be specific: black hair, pale complexion, rosy cheeks, ruby lips. My eyes are green, but outside of that? We could have been twins. Unfortunately, my prince turned out to be moonlighting in a whole library of other women's stories.

So there I was, a few months shy of my thirty first birthday, holding up the bar at Roy's, my favorite meat market. I know, I know, go on Tinder, it's easier. Admittedly, that can be fun if all you're looking for is a random hookup with some guy who thinks that holding up a fish in their profile picture really gets a girl going. But bars are so much richer an experience, a decidedly analog one in a world that's had a lot of its charm sucked out by the digital.

For the cost of a couple of overpriced drinks, you get an experience that can't really be replicated anywhere else. Want to people watch? You can see the whole panoply of human experience: desire, despair, delight, drunkenness, debauchery. And that's just in the D's! If you want to participate, there's a whole other layer to the bar scene: are you prey? Hunter? Bystander? Are you sure?

And then there are people like me, the old hands. If the hunt is the game, I like to be part of the metagame, someone that directs and redirects others to what they need, rather than what they merely want. Two years in the same bar meant that I was better known and better trusted than some of the staff. The other regulars were my friends; I knew that was kind of a sad statement at the end of my third decade on this planet, but it's better to have bar friends than no friends at all.

So it was that on a Thursday night I sat with a drink, my second and probably last of the evening. Some people, the young or the rich or the dumb, go to singles bars to get drunk. I drank just enough to enjoy the ambient excitement, the buzz of people and need and alcohol mixing together into a cocktail far more intoxicating than any mere booze, if one was discerning enough to enjoy it. And for that? I was an absolute lush.

I still liked to pick up a guy now and then; it's good to keep your hand in, and a girl's got needs. But the odd thing about going to the same place is that you have to be careful to not shit where you eat. The other regulars were mostly off limits; some I'd spent a night or two with, but not many. As much as any other social scene, the woman that gets marked out as a slut better want that label, or she's going to be miserable. Never mind that damn near every guy there would love to have the tag for themselves, except that they expected to change two letters and be 'stud' instead. But you can't spell 'stud' without STD.

Truth be told, the last few months had represented a real low crop anyways, mostly out-of-towners with tan lines on their ring fingers and desperation in their eyes. Some gals might not have a problem there, but they all reminded me of my ex-husband. They could go fuck themselves, because they sure as hell weren't going to fuck me. Then there were the frat boys that wandered in looking for a cougar and thought that any woman older than twenty seven counted. No thank you.

There had been that one guy a month before, the cute one whose divorce had gone through just that day. I'd happily have been his guide to the lands of the newly single, but like I said: I like to direct people to what they need, rather than what they want. He had come in with that young blonde "friend" of his that I pointed out wasn't just his friend, and they'd left together after snogging at the bar for what seemed like five minutes. Hadn't seen either of them since; I smiled at the thought of a good deed done.

And this slow Thursday night, I saw something refreshing: a guy who didn't want to be there.

They came in occasionally, usually one member of a group that was helping celebrate a divorce or a breakup. That was definitely what one of the guys in his party of four was doing: the others were slapping the newly single bro on the back and talking him up, buying drinks and toasting. Two of the hangers-on were here for the hunt, too, supporting their friend by trying to grab their own brass rings, making him feel more comfortable with his manner of celebrating. But the last guy? He was being supportive with his presence, but that was as far as it went.

The other three scattered. The fresh divorcé, marked by the thin streak of paler skin on his ring finger, made a beeline for a curvy redhead I'd seen in Roy's a couple of times. "Ro" something. Rowan? Whatever. She wasn't a regular, but regular enough that I knew she could take care of herself, and this guy seemed pretty harmless anyways.

The other two were intercepted by Jane, a relative newcomer, but one with an impressive body count already. I hadn't talked with her much, but I knew that she'd been a shy nerd that turned into a wild child after a bad breakup. I'd have given good odds that both of these guys were going home with her. Rowan was looking to find a guy for some fun, but I got the feeling that Jane was desperately trying to replace something she'd lost. I shook my head; we heal how we heal.

That left the last guy. He was a handsome dark skinned Black man about my age with short dreads and an undercut. Tall, and slim, his clothes were comfortable and appropriate to the bar we sat in, but only if the goal was to be as inconspicuous as possible. His manner, the way he looked straight forward, and how he sat all screamed, "I'm not here, don't look in this direction." Now this... this was interesting.

My initial thought was to simply do as he clearly wanted. But there was an open seat next to him, and I knew that, body language aside, one of the thirstier women would occupy it and bother him soon. I remembered the nights when I wanted to be left alone but still be around people, and I sympathized. The correct choice was obvious.

"Hey." I sat on the previously empty stool. "Sarah."

He looked up. "Oh, uh, Darius." I glanced at his finger; there was a distinct impression of a ring there, one that had been taken off just before he'd come in. But he wasn't on the hunt. A guilty conscience or something else?

"I'm sorry to bother you, but, well... I could see you didn't want to be bothered, and that just wasn't going to happen." He raised an eyebrow, and I chuckled. "You're a handsome, apparently single guy in a meat market. You're going to get hit on if there's an opportunity. The empty seat next to you? That was an opportunity."

Darius nodded and smiled slightly. "I, ah, I've been out of the game for a while. So, you're bothering me so that I won't be bothered?"

"Something like that. Bothering you for my own curiosity, too. But not bothering you in a way that'll get us hot and bothered, if that's what you're worried about."

He laughed loudly then, and his smile was dazzling. The laugh was good, too, a deep bass rumble that felt comforting as it rolled over me, genuine and warm. Maybe he wouldn't get hot and bothered, but it was going to be a struggle for me. "So you're saving me from myself, is that it?"

"Yeah, guess so. What're you drinking?"

"Soda. Designated driver." He inclined his head towards his buddy. "My friend Lee just got divorced, and I'm here for moral support."

That brought a knowing chuckle from me. "Well, I doubt you're going to need to fulfill your duties. Pretty sure he's not going to need a ride anywhere until the morning. Your other two friends, either."

His expression was dubious. "You seem to know a lot about me for someone who's just here to keep me from being bothered."

My shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. "I like to people watch. Cheap entertainment and sometimes I get to help a person out. Sometimes it's even me!" I raised my glass in mock salute and finished it, then signaled Roy. Maybe one more tonight.

The owner's gruff voice called out, "Coming right up, Double D."

"Double D?"

I groaned inwardly and sighed outwardly. "Not... not what you think. Or maybe it is, too; Roy's a bit of an old lech. But it's short for 'divorce doula.' I helped a drunk forty something get through the early days of hers, and she called me that. It kind of stuck."

"So you do this a lot? Sit down with folks who... who aren't married anymore and help them through it?"

I shrugged again. "I wouldn't say 'a lot,' but enough that I picked up a nickname. So maybe? Regardless, I can tell that... Well, she was ready to get back in the mix. You're pretty clearly not."

Darius sadly shook his head and looked into his glass. "No. No, I'm really not."

"Then why take the ring off? To support your friend?"

"Sort of." He took a sip of the soda. "He's been... He keeps telling me I need to get back out there. That I need to get back on with my life, but... I dunno. She was my life, you know?"

That was a feeling I definitely remembered. "Yeah, I get it. How long has it been?"

"A little more than a year." Darius' shoulders slumped.

"Since you split, or since the divorce was final?"

The pain flickered across his face, then was hidden behind a well-worn mask that I'd put on myself, the one that tries to lie and tell everyone that the wearer is getting on with their life. "Oh. Uh, no. Since she passed."

Fuck! Fuck. Good work, Sarah. "Oh shit, I'm so sorry."

"Thank you." Sincerity there, but also a flash of annoyance. I knew that one, too.

Taking a sip of my new drink, I chuckled quietly. "It's exhausting, isn't it?"

"What?"

"The sympathy."

His features relaxed, just a bit. A little more unguarded. "I, uh. Yeah. It, uh, it can be." He smiled slightly. "Personal experience?"

I nodded. "Yeah. No! No, not on the scale that you have, but yeah. People mean well, but..." I shook my head. "No, they want to mean well. But they mostly want you to know that they mean well."

That deep laugh again. "Yes, that's a good way to put it. And you can't be annoyed. Can't seem ungrateful. They're trying to be there for you, even though they're never actually there again. I tell you..." His head shook in disgust. "It was at the receiving line after Carla's funeral. There were so many people there, which... I'm glad she was loved. That people would miss her. But when her third cousin came through the line, this dude I'd never met and never heard Carla talk about, crying so hard that snot was coming out of his nose? And he gave me this huge hug and told me how much she meant to him, and how much he was going to miss her?" His glass was empty, and he raised it to get Roy's attention. "Yeah, I could have done without that."

I looked at us in the mirror behind the bar, two people who were done with other people's well-intentioned performative grief over our tragedies. Two ungrateful jerks that weren't sure why we were supposed to be grateful to have more pain heaped on us. "It's like being a sin eater, but for sorrow. A grief eater."

He snapped his fingers and pointed at me. "Yes! That's it! That's it exactly. They-- some of them meant well, some of them were there with support, bringing meals or just sitting with me and letting me cry. But so many of them just wanted to confess their sadness. To let me know they were sad, too, even though..." He glowered.

"Even though you don't need their sadness piled on yours. You need to have yours lessened. But no one's going to be able to do that, are they? Even the ones that mean well, the ones that do keep coming back after... well, for me after the divorce. They can help, and they can be supportive, but even those ones--" I grimaced. "If I never hear another person tell me that it's time to get back up on the horse, it'll be too soon."

We shared a laugh. "God, I know what you mean. Lee means well. He invited me along so that I'd... I don't know, so that his enthusiasm for getting on with his life might rub off on me, but..." There was a rueful expression on Darius' face now. "He got divorced. He wanted to. They both cheated on each other; her first, but he took it as an excuse rather than a warning. He was ready to be free. I-- I just..." His voice had cracked just a little.

I put my hand on his shoulder. Perhaps too intimate of a gesture from a stranger in a bar, but his hand patted mine as he gave me a sad smile. "Double D, huh?" I nodded. "Are you a psychologist or something?"

"Nah, only by osmosis. Spend enough time and money on shrinks, and you start thinking like them eventually. For me, I... I see people sad, and I want to help. Not to sympathize, but to empathize. I... Sympathy says, 'I'm glad that's not happening to me.' Empathy says, 'I wish it wasn't happening to you.' I want to do that." It was my turn to look into my glass. "I wish someone had done that for me."

We sat quietly together for a while, me thinking about how I'd gotten here, him... I don't know. But I could guess. "Would you like to tell me about her?" He opened his mouth, then closed it again. "Only if you want to. I... when things ended with Richard... I wanted to speak to someone about it without people trying to... I wanted to talk about it how I wanted to talk about it. About what it meant to me, rather than what I thought it should mean to the person listening. I get the feeling that, maybe, you haven't gotten to really talk about Carla like that with anyone except maybe a therapist."

There was a ping on his phone, then another. Darius chuckled. "Guess you were right. I'm free." His head tilted on one side as he regarded me thoughtfully. "I, uh. I'd like that. To talk about Carla. But..." He sighed. "Look, I'll be honest. I wasn't really up for coming out tonight, and I kinda just want to go home. But, um. I don't want this to sound like a come on, but would you like to get coffee or something some time? Just... just to talk."

Well, how about that? Not even trying, and I still got his number. Score one for Sarah.

Coffee became brunch by the time Saturday morning rolled around. I was there on time, but Darius was early, dressed in a casual outfit that was a close cousin to his bar attire: understated, comfortable, and designed to make people's attention glance off. He stood as I approached. "Hey, Sarah. I'm really glad you came."

He really did have a lovely smile. "Me too. Thanks for inviting me."

We sat and perused the menu; I sipped on a mimosa while he contented himself with a coffee. I broke the comfortable silence first. "You know, I don't even know what you do for a living?"

"Oh! I'm, ah, a professor. Linguistics. You?" Smart, sweet, and handsome. If he ever got back into dating, someone was going to snatch him right up.

"Nothing that lofty. Personal assistant at an electronics firm." I shrugged. "Pays the bills."

"Did you... was there something else you wanted to do? Did you go to college?"

The sigh came out before I could stop it. "Yeah, but I didn't finish. Got three years in and..." I waved my hand. "Things happened." Richard happened. "English. Thought I was going to write the next great American novel. Or at least something that could get optioned into a script and piss me off while I cashed royalty checks."

Darius' laugh was quiet. "Ah, yeah. I-- " He smiled sadly. "I was never a big fiction reader. Strange, I know. I like words, but..." He shrugged. "I like them because of how they work, not so much because of what they do. I know that might sound weird."

"No, I get it. There's a guy at my work, a few of them that-- they're geniuses. Design all sorts of chips and such. Some of them still have flip phones. One only has a landline. I get it; making and consuming scratch two different itches. Understanding scratches another."

He smiled. "Well, damn. Maybe you should write that book."

"Maybe. It... I kind of got that lust for creation burned out of me with..." I shook my head. "Doesn't matter."

Darius cocked his head. "Hey, Sarah. Yeah it does. Look, I know you said you wanted to hear about Carla, but I'd like to hear about you, too. I, uh, I mean, if you'd like to tell me. I don't want you to feel like-- "

"No, no, that's not it. It's just." I laughed. "I guess it doesn't matter. We're-- this is just friendly, right? You're not looking, and I'm not looking to push that. Even if-- " Another laugh, this one a bit embarrassed. "Not saying you should get back up on that irritating metaphorical horse, but when you do? You're going to be in for a wild ride with someone. Lots of someones if you like." He studied his hands. "Sorry, I don't mean to embarrass you." I wondered if I could blame the mimosas, but knew that probably wouldn't fly.

His head came up, a kind smile on his face. "No, no, that's not it. It's just... It still feels disloyal. Less than it used to, but I feel like I'm cheating on her, even-- even just having lunch with a pretty friend." I blushed just a tiny bit. False flattery at the bar no longer had an effect on me, but this? Honest emotion from someone with no reason to lie? Yeah, that still got me. "Now it's my turn to apologize."

I shook my head. "No, I'm not embarrassed. Just... Just a little thrilled, honestly. It's nice to hear real compliments. Spend enough time at a bar, and they become rarer and rarer in your life. I guess that's why-- well, like I said. This is just friendly. And it's the first 'just friendly' thing I've really had, outside of hanging with some coworkers, in quite some time. So I'm kinda having to stretch some muscles I haven't in a while. But it feels nice. Really."

My breath came out in a big sigh. He had asked, and for the first time in quite a while, I didn't feel like I had to filter myself. "Richard-- my ex-- he really threw me for a loop. He was older than me, eight years older. Not a big deal even if you're talking about a couple of people that are even, like, twenty four and thirty two, say. But a huge deal when one is nineteen and the other is twenty seven.

"He was handsome and smart and successful. On his way to his first million. We met one night while I was out clubbing, and he-- I didn't know it then, but he was a narcissist. He used every tool in the box to isolate me and make me his; I don't know if it came naturally to him or if he was one of those douchebags that studied pick up artist tricks or what. But he lovebombed me, praised and negged me to get me twisted around, separated me from friends and family..."

I looked away, unable to stand the honest, heartfelt pain on Darius' face. "I dropped out of college to 'support' him, even though he didn't need the support. He killed my love of writing a bit at a time, convincing me that none of it was good enough to show anyone else; I know now that it was just to keep me from making friends to show my work to, but the damage has been done. He just wanted me available to him at all times.

"I convinced myself, because I was really still just a child, that it was the storybook romance I'd been promised by Disney and Co. But he wasn't really Prince Charming; he was like a less violent Bluebeard. Except that it would be more kind if he'd abandoned me; instead I was his fallback girl, the one dumb enough to marry him.

"The first time I caught him cheating, he promised it was a fling, a drunken mistake while traveling. We went to counseling. He lied about everything there, I later found out. The second time, I divorced him. He got violent then, and... and I took whatever terms I could to get out of the marriage, just to get away. I found out he'd been sleeping around the entire time we were together, and I'd been none the wiser." I chuckled ruefully. "Hard to notice changes in behavior when there were no changes. He'd always been a selfish, greedy son of a bitch, and I'd missed all the signs."

"God, Sarah. That's awful."

"Yeah. Yeah, it really was.. Anyways, it kind of killed my love of writing, like I said. And then I had to get a job for the first time just to live, and I had no degree, so here we are." Another sip of my mimosa. "That's the first time I've told the whole story in a while. I-- it's kind of a downer. Not something you want to tell on a date, either. Guys tend to either decide you're a sucker that won't notice them cheating or a damsel to be rescued, and I'm neither." I sighed. "Not anymore, at least."