Four Good

40

Just stupid enough

I take care of chores when I get home, but when I realize that’s only going to keep me busy for so long, I text Valerie, telling her I’ll be able to come in to work after all. I don’t really want to be alone with my thoughts tonight.

My body still aches, but if I keep up with the pain medicine, it’s barely noticeable.

Instead of curling up on the couch or in his bed like he typically would, Roscoe follows me around the house for a while, giving me curious looks that feel like accusations. I’ve ruined his fun, too.

I always eat before my shift at Rusty’s, but the sandwich I make feels like cardboard in my mouth. I knew when I was putting it together that I wouldn’t be able to eat it, and I was right. After shoving it in the refrigerator, with the hopes that food will be more appealing tomorrow, I get dressed for work.

“Hey, I thought you were at home nursing the world’s longest hangover,” Becca says, when she finds me behind the bar. “That was some party, huh?”

My birthday party feels like it took place in another lifetime or a different dimension, but I may as well be hungover, as lousy as I feel.

When I give her the smallest of grins, she says, “I thought you weren’t coming in today.”

I stab the ice scoop into the bin, breaking apart cubes that are clumped together. “My plans changed.”

Becca takes a couple of rocks glasses from the shelf to hold drink garnishes. “I was just kidding about the hangover. I actually thought you were still in bed with your ex and those other three men you left with.”

I hope my grimace isn’t obvious when I say, “Those plans changed, too.”

Her tone turns serious. “Is everything okay?”

“Things are shit, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

Becca winces. “Everyone saw you kissing your ex, and a good number of people saw you leave with all four of them. I was off Wednesday and Thursday, but I’m afraid you were still a big topic of conversation in here last night.”

That’s just great, because that’s exactly how I want to spend my night: hearing about the men I’m trying to forget. But I knew this would happen. I knew when Jay kissed me on the dance floor that people would talk about it, and I didn’t care. It was worth it.

“I could start a new rumor,” Becca says, eyes twinkling. “How about something about Tom? I could get everyone spreading that around instead.”

I think she’s joking — I hope so, anyway — and her misguided thoughtfulness almost makes me smile.

“Let’s see … what would be outrageous, but not so crazy that people wouldn’t believe it?” She taps her cheek with her finger, thinking. “Cross dressing? A past career in the porn industry?”

“Becca!” I’m actually smiling now, because picturing burly, hairy Tom in women’s clothing is quite a fun stretch of the imagination. “I appreciate your creativity, but that won’t be necessary. People will move on from my story soon enough.”

“You’re right,” Becca says as she starts to cut into a lemon. “And as for your ex and the other guys — fuck ‘em. Men are best experienced as one-night stands. Any longer than that and they start to smell like old trash.”

I don’t agree with her, but she puts me in better spirits for a while — until we open for business, and I catch myself watching the door every time a new customer comes in.

I don’t know why I’d be expecting the men to show up. As far as they know, I called off work tonight. Besides that, I definitely didn’t leave in a way that invited them to chase after me.

Despite the bar being crowded and very busy, the night passes slowly. I receive a few speculative looks from a couple of the locals, but no one says anything, at least not to my face. I wouldn’t be surprised if Becca warned everyone to keep their mouths shut.

I wake up on Sunday, but getting up is another story.

Every part of my body aches as if someone had come in and hit me with a baseball bat while I was asleep.

In a stroke of luck, the bottle of pain tablets is on my nightstand. I swallow two of them dry, not sure I can even manage to go get water, and when the medicine kicks in, I fall back asleep.

Roscoe is whimpering beside my bed when I wake up again. I move my arms and legs experimentally. The pain is still there, but it’s more of a distant ache than a screaming alarm.

Standing up slowly, my body feels like it’s not my own. It’s not just the pain; it’s like there’s a thick liquid all around me making it difficult for me to move. I let Roscoe out into the backyard, and have to sit in a chair while I wait for him. I’m too tired to stand at the door.

I make it back into bed, and text Sheila to ask if she can take care of Roscoe. I’ll have to call my rheumatologist tomorrow, or maybe I can try her answering service today in the hopes that I can get an appointment tomorrow.