The Nereid

Playin’ Jenga by candlelight. Against the din of a bar, the djinn of some liquor laden drink enchanting my esophagus. Content. We are stunning in the dim light, cozy against the edge of youth, leaning into adulthood. Watch us stumble over it, stumbling past one another, pathetic, all late nods and droopy smiles.

 

The line for the bathroom is infinite. Women are writhing against the brick beside me as their bladders revolt. A chuckle stirs, dying in the throat when some leggy goddess strolls past. Her lilac wake kills the sweaty smell. Another girl leaves the bathroom. We shuffle forwards.

 

Four inches from the concrete, my soles are itching. Rain hammers the roof. Over the laughter, the murmurs, the music...it drums. When the mirror holds no more surprises, I slither back through the crowd.

Sit.

Jenga falls, for the last time, and the conversation dissolves, so I reach for mine. My phone. Tweet something random that feels deep. The faces around me glow blue, eyes black, an IPhone nation. Ghosts all set around the wooden table like Ouija, spellbound. Thumbs hammering away at plastic. Turning to my left I begin to yell:

 

I’d kill for a cigarette right now.

I thought you quit?

I did.

You want one or what?

 

He shrugs, nodding, mouthing: be right back. The ghosts nod, make half smiles, though their eyes never seem to leave the screen. He and I trudge up the stairs to the ground floor. He stops to lean against the banister, waiting. My head shakes itself, nodding at the door.

 

Outside? Why, it’s still cold.

Cause it’s raining. You can stay here if you want.

 

With a shove, the oak door releases us into the night. It’s empty. The burger place across the street is, too. Aside from an occasional car, there is silence. In a corner beneath the overhang, we huddle, embracing the storm. Smells like salt, exhaust, Newports. The shallow mist rising from the grass drags and rolls like a fine Victorian tail. A shiver crawls up my spine, and I reach for the lighter and the pack, handing him one.

 

The crack of a lighter is comforting. Settles the id into slumber. Gotta save him for another night anyways, with a different crew, far, far away. There are sides of the self for certain times. So tonight, only the lavender sky gets to lie with the earth like that friend with benefits who doesn’t know the truth.

 

Does anybody, I murmur. Truth sneaks, lurking about consciousness like the last vestiges of control on a dreary nor’easter night, stuck with some former lover and too many blunts. When the roommates are out, it’s all trouble. The super ego fails us.

 

The sound of tires on tar tears at the air like velcro. Many more race the highway behind the bar, in the distance. With the steady patter of rain, it coalesces into a city girl’s lullaby. An ache for the coast plops down heavy on my throat. Looking up, there is no light to pierce the lavender veil, in the night, and in the rain, there is no sunlight, just the tiny lamps we make ourselves. And those are only candle flames, by which we find one another in kinship and conflict, in the shadows of some dim bar. It’s all glorified loitering.

 

He and I though, we’re still standing outside, watching the rain, thinking. Sucking on sweet death, shivering in the April downpour. The smoke plumes, spicy and sharp. I’m closing my eyes to inhale deeper than I should, relishing the reaper’s kiss. Oh, them burnt liquorice sticks, them clove cigarettes. Errant thoughts run with the wind, which shifts, biting us. My skin revolts against icy denim, so we suck to the filters and flick ‘em. Hunched over, we stumble back inside, restless dragons trailing smoke. Past the bouncer who’s oozing, dough-like, all over his stool, like a ratchet sumo wrestler. My lips curl at the neck tat jutting from jowell down, some shit scratchers’ work for sure. We descend the stairs and dive into rum.

 

Sing with us: pour up, drank, head-shot, drank, sit down, drank, stand up, drank...

 

Stare up at the wall, at the pillars and archways. They’re inscribed with woodburning script, filigree, in illustrious, albeit degraded, design work. The incantations snake from banister to ceiling, casting serpent shadows on the Bocce arena. Conjuring us. The suits playing pool begin to shove one another, but I miss the outcome. The group’s moving. I must go.

 

The bar is damn near full now, individual voices lost. There is Britney, bitch, and laughter. Some cascade of red curls bats her lashes, lamenting on my fro-hican, mohawk, mohican, fro-hawk, whatever, while I trip over the words bubbling from my mouth.

 

There should be edible versions of stuff, I think. Her hips purr to the left and vanish, so I shake my head and smirk. My friend looks up from his Droid and raises an eyebrow. I jerk my head at red curls’ wake, but she’s gone.

 

We all leave.

 

Out into the rain, the cold, we finally dissolve the last shadows of the night. Dawn will come for the sky again. Who we are in the dark, under cloak of night and tiny lamps is truly caught between tonight and tomorrow. There is class to attend in the day, work to get to, bills to be paid. No more leaning, gotta stand up straight and face the sun.

 

But the rain resets my heartbeat, and the rum helps. Sure, our smiles sag, and we flounder around like sock puppets, but the happy is genuine.

 

Riding back to my apartment, the wind is cool and wet. For once, the sea lingers on the inland air, plunging into my lungs. Now, this is breathing. Tomorrow, panting. The sun will be dry and hot. I will hide my eyes and cover my tattoos, wait for the train and report to work.

 

There’s no truth there, in the sunlight. Our true selves fall like raindrops to the bottom of our souls, condensed in the daytime. We will all participate in reality, march to the same beat. We will all face the sun, and roast.

 

Briana Almeida