You are flipping through stacks of pictures while he plays chess on the computer. There are photographs of his old band in the studio, his ugly bowtie and cumberbund combo from senior prom and him with that awful, grown-out haircut sitting on some rotting log.

The pictures stick together, tacky with time and dirt and tape. Fuzzy photos of him as a baby in a big, red wagon. Pictures of hollowed out grocery stores, black and white images of sculptures and lampshades.

He joins you on his bed, bending it with his weight, as you are nearing the end of the pile. He twists a lock of your hair, looking at them with you, and you love him so much you wish you could have loved him at eight and twelve and twenty-two.

An out-of-focus shot of a sunshine-filled window rests between smiling faces from a toddler’s birthday party. His bed, the one your are resting on right now, is in the foreground, just a large smudge in the belly of the window’s light. Woven into the wrought-iron bars is the sash of his bathrobe. The one you see hanging ont he back of his bedroom door.

Your guts stop churning.
Your pulse drives wildly into the base of your skull.

“Who did you tie up?,” you manage to mutter, dizzy, hoping he’ll say he staged it all. Merely a scene for a snapshot.

He sighs as he says it, pitying you. “Marcy.”

All you can think about is how Marcy, his ex, considered herself a brilliant chess player.

And how he will never tie you up again.

(Thanks be to Torrez, who saved this story from near extinction.)

Bits of conversation I had or overheard during my bar shift tonight:

Man with the blue shirt and long face: “She left me. Left a note. And, man, she only packed one suitcase. Damn near broke my heart in two.”

Trashy, blonde redneck lady drinking draft Bud Light: “I told that motherfucker to not leave Travis alone with them puppies.”

Me: “Look at that, Marlboro 27s. I have never seen those.”
Her: (reaches to hand me one)
Me: “Oh, I don’t smoke. I quit. But thank you though.”
Her: “Then you don’t get one. I’ll just tell you how smooth they are and watch you jones.”
Dude beside Her: “27 is the numbers of swepts it took to make that cigarette. Little dirt, a little hair, some rat turds…”

Me: “Hey, how are you?”
Asshole with cheap, feet-stinky cigar: “I need a Sapphire and tonic and a banana daquiri.”
Me: “Oh no, I said, ‘Hey, how are you?’”

Little, tiny lady with the neat purse but questionable eyewear: “I’ll have the Chicken on…”
Me: “The Chicken on the Barbie?”
Little, tiny lady: “Yeah, thanks for not making me say it.”
Me: “Oh, no problem.”

Doofus guy with awful haircut: “Can we watch the Victoria’s Secret fashion show?”
Me: (in my head) “Well, it is prime time on ABC. And, uh, ‘no rules, just right’ or whatever.”
Me: “Yeah, I guess.”
-30 minutes later-
The Boss: “Brittney! Turn that off! This is a family restaurant and naked ladies are not appropraite for family restaurants!
Me: (in my head) Like I care about the dang naked ladies!

Some smarmy guy in a black suit: (to K., a pretty hostess) “I have lots of money.”
K., the pretty hostess, who I think now totally rules: “That’s unremarkable.”