April 10th, 2013
Gloomy Sunday

He smiled. “You’re welcome. I’m reading this book. It’s interesting stuff. A biography.”

“Of?”

“A writer. Trisha Highsmith, I think’s her name. She drank, too. Had a tough life.”

I pulled several bottles of gin down from the shelf, and started wiping them down. “So it’s a good book, then?”

“Very. The writer talks about her childhood. I think she might have been molested. She never outright says it, though. But she alludes to it. She talks about living in this boardinghouse, and there’s this man who lives there. And when she writes about it—you can just feel it. She really doesn’t like him. I think something had to have happened.” He clutched the edge of the bar and propelled himself forward. “Why do you bite your fingernails?”

I blinked, then shrugged, balling my hand into a fist.

“No! Don’t go doing that! That’s my favorite thing about your hands. If they were too perfect, it’d be intimidating. You see what I mean? It’s human.”

“It’s just from worrying, I guess.”

Jason slammed down his drink. The lime slipped off the rim and fell into the pale pink liquid. “That’s just it, Mary! That’s exactly it! You’re worried. I knew you were worried, from the second I laid eyes on you!” He took another sip. “I wonder if that guy in Roxbury bit his nails. I bet he did. And you know what? If he did, I bet nobody even noticed.”

My throat felt thick. “I bet you’re right,” I said softly. We were both silent for a moment.

“Thanks for talking to me. Thanks for being so nice,” he said suddenly.

I smiled. “You’re welcome.”

“Here.” He shoved something at me across the counter. It was a few crumpled twenties.

“Oh. Did you want to pay your bill?”

“No! I’ll settle up later. Just take it, please.”

“Jason, no.”

“No, no, no. Take it! Please, take it.”

I handed it back to him.

“Please. I don’t want it. I have plenty of money. I want to be able to spend it tipping nice people. Please.” He outstretched his arms as if holding up traffic, and looked up at the ceiling.

“Okay, okay. Thank you.” Slowly, I put the bills under the counter without looking at them.

“I have two nieces, you know. I haven’t seen ‘em in a while.”

“Why not?”

He ignored my question. “The little one, her name’s Olivia. She’s got these blonde curls. Perfect spirals. Like a pile of tornadoes popping out of her head. That’s fitting, too, ‘cause the girl’s got energy.”

I smiled. “Do you have a picture?”

“Her older sister, she pulls Livy’s hair. Jealous little bitch, that one can be. Last time I was there, she pulled so hard that”— he paused and lowered his eyes—“she ripped one right out of her head.”

I winced. “My god! Was she okay?”

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