Mary

The bartender looked up and with some trepidation at my inquiry. “I’m Daniel,” I told him. “That’s my name, Dan. I’m Dan too.” This lightened the mood somewhat. “I don’t live here anymore, I’m just wondering how she is.” “Yea, I remember Mary. She had a tight little body.” That was Mary. “She’s probably 200 lbs. now.” I nodded and listened for more. “You don’t want to get mixed up with that,” he said, looking out for me. “I know. I’ve got a whole other life now, I don’t live here anymore.” “She came in here a year or so back and had a few drinks then just fell off the bar stool.” He motioned with his hand how she fell. “Right in mid conversation,” he added. “A girl like that will never get right. I think she was born in prison. I mean what does a girl like that do?” “Yea,” I nodded in understanding. “Well, if she happens in here at some point tell her Daniel asked about her.” I felt it. “I think she’s in Florida - on her second or third kid.” “Yea,” I nodded again. We watched a bit of the game, shook hands then turned and left. When I met Mary she was gorgeous. She read me a poem and I fell in love knowing it would only be a short life. She straddled my body in the driver’s seat of that car. The car that took me west, twice. We would make love in the quiet of her Main Street apartment and I would visit her all awkward at her lunch hour in the library. She was a librarian by day and a bartender by night. Perfect. We fell in love, sort of, then I left. I left on the weekdays for a philosophy degree from Rutgers. I didn’t last but I wished I could see Mary now, 200 lbs. or not although I knew it would go nowhere. We shared fluids, we connected on some level and stayed for the want of it. For some time, for now, as we do.