LOVE ME LIKE ART

6

여섯
Zachary A. Choi

HAUNTINGLY I SIT ALONE, in perturbed quiet.

MacIveys feels like a ghost town, an island without any life, now that Imani's soft whisper is no longer surging all the way from Tottenham.

I press my thumb and two index fingers on the curve of my glass. My eyes hold a steely, penetrative gaze at her empty bar stool, that still has remnants of what she smells like, snicking my air. It is like my eyes are trying to trick me into thinking I can stir her return when she could be easily be a ghost, instructed to torture a lonely soul like mine.

I take slow, indulged sips of my malty beer thinking about all the ways I could've savoured and saved her company.

It was the first time, in a long time, where I was excited about tomorrow. But, that is what is wrong... why have I banked such important hopes on a person I met for the first time today?

I think it is because it is the first time, in a long time, I am not rushing to compare every shadowy face to my ex and how impossibly high she set the standards.

Under the expanse of the inky night, in a bar as sparse as MacIveys, it reminds me of all ways that I am frustratingly lonely now that Imani has gone, like a thief in the night.

It also reminders me that love might never be in the cards for me.

My mum hates when I talk so careless because it is so easy for these misspoken words to manifest but it is true. Even if, I am every bit patient, I don't know if I'll ever find or be able to gamble on the kind of love I'm after.

I've tried dating in this digital age because I have seen so many scores of it working. Yet, I can't say that I am a beneficiary. Women are often after relationships that have the hallmarks of non-commitment and are largely undefined. And for those that want a relationship that is intentional, something I want to, our worlds don't meld.

So, here I sit, fingers tapping on the sticky wood... alone.

I take another pensive sip of my drink, eyes stationed on the black folding doors for Tobenna and his braided head top. We said that we'd meet here at eleven, so I don't know why I am still waiting for him at 11:47 PM.

"Ah." Willy observes that the barstool next to me, is empty. "Where did trouble go?" He asks, in his East End twang which is underscored by the rhythmic clinking of shot glasses in the hook of his arm.

I check my watch, "Imani?"

"Pretty thing didn't tell me her name." Willy clucks as his beard is a dense thicket of coarse, dark strands that frame his jawline. He moves around the bar, his hands instinctively grabbing at a cloth to wipe down the dirty glass in his hand.

"She said she had to go." I say as I bury my forearm into the pocket of my suit jacket, searching for my AMEX.

"You look disappointed, mate."

"A little." I admit. "I liked talking to her, since you know..." In doing so, my fingers skim the crumbled notepaper with her scribbled digits.

"I get it, cheese. Pretty thing said she likes our corner of the city so I'm sure that ain't the last you've seen of the lass."

I bring the notepaper into view and wave it slightly, showing him that I've been given a hand, by fate.

"Oh, aye."

"I thinking about whether I should call."

"What is there to think about, mate?"

"I don't know." I stutter.