Though really, in this dream, it’s more a saloon than a bar, with swinging doors that slap the walls. I’m behind the bar, so I assume I’m the bartender. We’re all in old-timey clothes. I’m wearing a long skirt that brushes the dusty floor; my hair’s in a bun. I touch it to confirm every strand is in place, because it’s not every day that a woman encounters three guys she’s had sex with (in my case, #16, #13, and #7).
I watch, through narrowed eyes, the three of them take a table. They huddle together, whispering. Then the love of my life walks up. He looks like himself, but vaporish—white, smoky. I can see through him. I’m surprised his body is solid enough to fill out his rough cotton and leather clothes.
“Three bourbons. One on the rocks, one with one cube of ice, and one neat,” he says.
I’m relieved he ordered something easy, because though the dream has assigned me the role of bartender, it hasn’t accompanied that with any mixology knowledge. Still, I say, “You don’t drink bourbon.”
“I do now,” says the love of my life, wearily.
So I wipe the dusty bottle of Maker’s Mark with a cloth and pour three glasses. I tong a cube of ice in one glass, four in another. The love of my life picks up those two and turns to bring them to my ex-boyfriend and my husband.
“Wait,” I say.
Resignedly, he places the glasses back on the counter.
I’m mad at him. Why, though? For not being overjoyed to see me? For dying, I figure. For leaving me. For initiating the bad decisions phase of my life. Instead of watering blown-out peonies, crocheting baby socks, and shopping at Home Depot, doing the things we were meant to do together, I was drowning my grief by fucking a series of bad men. My ex-boyfriend was witty and clever, but he found everything I liked trivial or boring. Each time we broke up, I lost five pounds. By the time I met my husband, my ribs showed. Turns out my husband is only attracted to emaciated women. After we got married I gained fifteen pounds. We haven’t had sex in over a year.
“Why’d you have to die?” I ask the love of my life. Of course, it’s not his fault a plank of scaffolding fell and cracked his skull. It’s not like he was driving drunk and crashed into a tree. It’s not like he smoked three packs a day and got lung cancer. Still, now my life sucks, because of him.
He blinks at me sadly with his vaporish eyes. He lifts the glass to his lips, the bourbon neat, and takes a big sip. I watch the bronze liquid travel down his beautiful, transparent throat and then disappear behind his solid shirt. I wish I could disappear too, like it did. Like he did.
