the heel press

It is customary in this area for establishments to be clean. The cleanliness is neither chemical nor sterile-- rather, the cleanliness is a consequence of sweaty hands scrubbing all the livelong day with blubber-based soapsuds in tin buckets. It is where we salty fishermen types come at dusk to escape the romanticism of sea view sunsets, and reward ourselves with practical drinks and sparse conversation.

The bar is often well lit. It deters the rambunctious youths and other seedy sorts of potential clientele. But cleanliness and light cannot forever deter those strange nights when the place grows forbidding, hedonistic, and mysteriously fitting for those sorts of clientele. But no new clientele visit, save the erratic visits of my Darling.

She comes in a fury of emotion provoked by red wine and the kind ear of her friend Jane. She demands that I swear that I will love her forever. And I could truly love Darling forever... it is only when she insists that I love her forever that I lose my capacity to do so.

Jane trails behind her, a quiet swarthy girl with dark pretty eyes, begging Darling not to make a scene. Jane, like the rest of us, drinks things in moderation but is always willing to clean up the trail that Darling leaves behind. Jane is kind enough to take her home so that I can enjoy the rest of the evening in peace, and even tucks Darling gently into our bed where I find her sweetly sleeping when I return from the bar.

But on one such day, Darling exploded into the establishment without Jane flushed and hysterical as ever.

"Darling!" Darling cried throwing her arms around me. The other men at the bar are good enough to pretend not to see us. I am apathetic to her cries and shakes. They blend into the wooden walls where I drink my beer in a peace that shatters her sounds. She must feel deeply in order to be the Darling that I love. But I will not indulge her further than she ought to go. It is her silence that startles me. As suddenly she is very still.

"You bastard," she whispers with a calm malice that makes my soul shiver. She exits the bar as quickly as she entered. Her absence allows me to retreat with my fellow patrons into the silence and sensible drinking that moderates our happy lives.

Darling does not come home that night, nor the next night, nor the next. I lie awake at night when I return from the bar. I suppose I am lonesome for the comfort of her body. Dramatic touch. Smiling eyes. Happy chatter. Yet her absence does not nag the way that her voice does. No. It's practical. It's steady. It's good.

Some days later, I feel a hand upon my shoulder, and a large man beckons me outside. There is a crowd gathered outside, as people swoon over a plump greenish mass that the large man brought ashore. The crowd clears in response to the arrival of the authorities. It becomes evident that the mass is all that is left of Darling. Her sad bloated body is stagnant, and alone.

I keel over my own indecision, and come to when I am back in the establishment. My numbness swells in a way comparable to that of Darling's present state. I order strong drinks. They make me rosy and sick. I take in the room as it spins rapidly, and notice Jane at the end of the bar surrounded by a cloud of smoke.

"You bastard," she says coolly with her eyes appropriately glazed with contempt. So I kiss her before she slaps me and exits the establishment. The other men at the bar are good enough to pretend not to see. As they retreat back into the silence and sensible drinking that moderates happy lives they leave me stagnant, and alone.