Margaret’s was the name of the joint. I usually liked to puff on the last of my cloves there after a long week of clients shuffling in and out of my office in between shots of cheap whiskey. Who am I? That doesn’t matter. What does is I’ve seen a lot in my years, and the chaos never seems to end. Deals. Cases. Readings. Blurry nights. Chaos. God doesn’t care what day of the week it is—all of ‘em eventually descend into a whirlwind of lucid oblivion before my eyes, Clairmont or main campus, in class or not. I usually just stand back and watch it all, vices in hand, all the best at Margaret’s. They say there’s a special place in hell for people like me, who sit back and don’t do a damn thing, but I never cared about that. I don’t like trouble.
I usually head in alone, maybe, sometimes, with the casual acquaintance or two. Last night I took my usual spot in a booth across from the bar, slowly numbing my fingertips with each sip of whatever cocktail was on tap. The smoke wafting about the air permeated my eyes just the way I like it, and then she walked in. The dame sashayed through the entrance, and locked eyes with me. I knew she’d be trouble. She fluttered her eyelashes, her curves thunderously announced by the ruby red dress she was wearing. I’m not the kind of guy who opens up easily, but there’s a handful of people in this world that can sense the pain lingering so slightly from the traces of God-knows-what on my breath. Without even saying a word, she waltzed over to me and took my hand to stand up. Between her musician’s fingers, the filter of a cigarette rested on her ruby red lipstick. I instinctively lit it for her, and I followed suit.
“You come here often?” she asked, taking a drag.
“When the pledges are competent, Don’t Fuck Your Brother notwithstanding.”
She looked down at the floor, and slid her pupils back up at me.
“I’m almost done with this one,” I continued. “Wave and Red Bull? Seven-dollar special tonight. On me.”
“Cute,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“Pssh. I’m not getting tangled up with you, or with anyone. Not right away, at least. I know you’re a Theta—I can feel your sisters’ looks.”
She bit her lip. “Please. Turn down for what?”
She took my hand, and we both extinguished our cigarettes. I could feel the rhythm of the evening withering away, second by second, grain by grain. I took her hand for a brief dance; our bodies contoured to the smooth beats played by some real talented folks.
“We’re playing some flip cup back at the house, if you’re down,” I said.
“If you play your cards right. I’m more of a Fireball girl.”
We walked outside, sliding through the gaps of lonely onlookers. Their world, for one second, was a little colder than mine. We stepped outside, and just as our shoes hit the tip of the sidewalk outside, a silver BMW pulled up, and the back door opened for the two of us. She seemed a little uneasy.
“Don’t worry about the mud on your heels,” I assured her. “One of our pledges owns this car.”
She smiled just a little, and we headed back to wash the rest of the evening away. She was known around as “Brigid,” and whether or not she was trouble, I never found out. She left a note on my bed the next morning, but no number. I always go back to the same joint every night. I sit in the usual place. And I wonder where she’s gone.
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