smother. [h.s.]

21. the fly trap

Dream A Little Dream Of Me - The Mamas & The Papas

If you could go anywhere, where would you go?

Would you fly away to Paris, stay in the most luxurious of hotels and eat Michelin star meals at the most expensive cafes? Or would you take a train across America, all the way to California, where the sun is always shining and the grass is always green?

I often consider this question myself. I've been almost nowhere, seen and experienced absolutely nothing but what lies within the blurred borders of New York and Connecticut.

I mean, why leave? Most people here don't see a reason to. But I still find myself imagining being in another place, filled with completely different people and customs; walking on streets older than my home country, seeing what people thousands of years ago made and never would believe this many would get to witness.

"Let's get out of here," Harry said.

"And go where?"

"Anywhere. You name it."

Anywhere? Like, anywhere, anywhere?

It wouldn't have mattered anyway. We ended up only 15 minutes south of Wintergreen, in my favorite sleazy bar.

With nothing but miles and miles of trees in between any sign of human life, the treasure that is the Fly Trap remains hidden off of exit 43. Only a few cars stand parked by the rickety building, which gets more and more worn down each year. Paint peels off of the walls, and a big neon sign of a fly rests above it, buzzing on and off every few seconds, almost as if its life is slipping away.

The Fly Trap is my favorite bar for several reasons.

First off, no one comes here. At least not from Wintergreen, that's for sure. It makes it the perfect place to people watch, to make lies up about yourself, to escape. Those who do frequent the Fly Trap will leave you with stories about their lives: about the bloody wars they fought long and far ago, about their dreadful ex-wives and step-children and mothers-in-law, and about the poor, unfortunate people they may or may not have buried in their backyard.

"What can I get for the pretty lady?" A middle-aged man tends the bar, wiping down glasses with an old rag. He winks at me and smiles, revealing his missing front teeth.

I've been pretending that what happened at the masquerade ball wasn't real. It was just a prank, right? Just one big joke, and any minute a car filled with a camera crew will pull up and reveal that everything was set up.

Either way, I'm here now. My goal is to get drunk and stay drunk.

"I'll have a dirty Shirley, please." I smile back at him, completely unphased by his appearance.

Harry sits at the bar to my left, tapping his fingers against the sticky wood. He hums along quietly to the folk song playing on the jukebox. The side of my knee brushes up against his.

We took Frankie's motorcycle here. I didn't ask why he still has it, or what he plans to do with it. We've both been quiet- Harry being so naturally, and me still ruminating on the events that went on less than an hour ago.

I stare at Harry's side profile unsubtly, admiring the slope of his nose and the way his cheeks look so soft when he isn't clenching his jaw, or furrowing his eyebrows. The bartender slides my drink to me and looks expectantly at Harry. He doesn't give him the same special treatment.

"Whiskey neat."

"We only have the cheap stuff." The bartender wipes some sweat from his temple with his sleeve.