Changing the Subject

My inspection was expired. It was biting cold out. I had just enough money for rent and half a mag of Moscato. 

I could paint. Or play music. Or read. Or something. But there was never any motivation or energy or desire to do anything at all. The sun crosses the sky. I stare at the walls. 

The big drama was over and now the days were empty, entirely.

The mag emptied. I left into the cold. 

Same corner of the same empty bar.

"I'm glad to see you," one of the three normal bartenders says. "but, don't take it weird, but, I'm worried about you."

"Do something about it," I say and regret it just as quickly. 

She doesn't say anything for a moment, only curls her mouth slightly downward, then; "Are you okay?"

"I'm not saying I'm not, or I am, but, what makes you ask?"

She is wiping a glass with a rag. Finishes, sets it down and picks up another. "I guess I don't know you super well, but, you know, you've been coming in for a couple years off and on and I can tell the difference and lately, it's just all been... this look. I mean, it's cool if you don't want to talk, but I think you're a good person, from what I know. I don't know. I like you. I know that people don't reach out sometimes, so I'm reaching out."

"Kind of you."

She sets the glass down. "I hope someone would reach out to me, if I was feeling a way."

I don't know how to respond to any of it. I sip at the beer. 7.5%. Some IPA. Doesn't matter which. 

"Anyone buy a painting?" I ask.

"Yours?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know," she says, turning to look toward one of them hanging on a wall on the other side of the bar. "Not that I know of. You priced them pretty high."

"I got bills."

"Wouldn't you sell more if you priced them lower?"

"Maybe. But..." I take another drink. "...people see a high price and they assume it's worth the high price. It's all fake. Even if they hate it, they think someone priced it, or evaluated it, or something. But no one really does. It's fake. All of it. Might as well fake being worth something, instead of..." I wave my arm to a few other paintings hanging nearby, priced much lower and also not sold, "...just advertising how worthless I actually am."

She nods. "True, I guess. I just always feel silly charging anything for my stuff, so the idea of pricing it high makes me feel really weird, like I'm stealing from them."

"If they can drop a grand on a painting, they deserve to be stolen from."

"Fair point."

"Do you have anything up here right now?" I ask.

"Not this time. Maybe in the next show. I haven't really been, I don't know, in the mood to show anything lately. Work, this place, has been draining me."

I've changed the subject.

Ghost

A small and stinging hole in the tip of my finger. I must have caught it on something and hadn't noticed. It isn't bleeding, but there is dried blood around the edges and maybe it happened while I was asleep. I'm picking at it without thinking.

Text messages on my phone I won't respond too. The noise is too much. The weight of conversation and a world beyond this room. A friend. A love. A job. All needing, wanting, taking pieces of me. Pieces I wish I could offer freely. Gladly. A friend. A love. A job. Picking.

The romance of wondering 'when did I become this way? Why?'. But I know when. I know why. 

The bedroom is warm and dark. The humidifier is on and the door is open. Daylight pale and white hanging soft against the living room wall. I am sitting on the bed staring absently at a watercolor on the otherwise barren wall. I can feel the notifications on my phone from across the room. The guilt for not looking. Not responding. Not being available all the time for everyone. For anyone. I have a cup of coffee in my hand, going cold. This is not a life.

I was someone.

I was so many.

A husband. A father. A friend. A musician, an artist, a creator. I was a lover and a partner. I was a point of light in a number of lives and I was alive for so long. 

Now, only this. Only this and trying to pretend I feel more. Trying to pretend I am more and I am not.

Get out of bed and check my phone. The guilt became too much. The job demands more from me. The friend only wants to talk. The love is all I look forward too and I am ashamed. I respond to none of them right away. I checked the notifications. I read the messages. That's all I can do right now. Maybe in a while I can afford more. I walk to the bathroom. Splash water on my face and in the mirror my eyes are the only thing to belong to me. The rest of it isn't real. Isn't me. It's nothing. The eyes, somewhere beyond the iris, deep below the pupil, I see myself staring back. Buried or hiding. Still the child locked in that closet. Still the kid covering their ears, blocking out the screams and the crashing. Still the person begging, praying, wishing it was all over. Still hiding. 

Get over yourself.

I look away. Piss. Wash my hands. Leave.

I can feel my heart in my chest. I walk to the living room and sit on the couch. Through the window the same scene as ever. A white house across the street. A second floor porch. Plastic sheeting over windows and fading winter daylight. I am a ghost.