Tommy Sallow is onto better and brighter things. After working a small hometown beat in upstate New York, he's finally in sunny California. As expected, it's the same shit in a different town. Except, you know, now he's near the ocean and miserable...
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Fear.
A human emotion that lives in all of us. It's natural and powerful. Sometimes it dictates our actions, other times it inspires action. It can be debilitating, haunting, and sometimes in rare cases, freeing. That is if you can face it head on. But how do you face something that freezes you? Something that shuts you down, turning you into a robot of reaction. That's what I've become as I look back at the man taking a slow sip of his whiskey. His fingers ever so slightly gripping the glass. The glass that can so easily be shattered with the wave of a hand.
When that golden brown liquid comes out to play, so does the devil. Every sip he takes is a ticking time bomb. That first pour is step one to making sure I start the bedtime routine. The second pour is my warning bell, letting me know it's story time. By the third pour, I am usually leaving her room, closing the door quietly, making sure not to wake her.
By the fourth pour, I make sure to be settled calmly on the couch. No sudden movements or comments to cause an unnecessary ripple in the current smooth waters. I don't have a drink of my own or dare to use my phone. Sitting still, letting the silence be a shield is the defense I take. Maybe, just maybe I can escape the impending storm.
"I heard something interesting today," his voice slices through the disturbing silence.
"Oh yeah?" I question, trying not to shift too much in my seat, remaining calm and nonchalant, at least on the outside.
"Yep. Heard you were leaving a lawyer's office this afternoon," his eyes lift from the top of his drink as he takes another long sip.
I clasp my fingers together tightly, dropping my trembling hands into my lap, trying to hide the nerves coursing through me. "Oh. I was just having lunch with Angela. You remember Angela?" I question with lightness, immediately building the backstory. His eyes just penetrate my words, not answering me, not giving me any acknowledgement. I continue with my story, trying my best to pull from the tiny ball of strength buried somewhere deep inside me. "We went to school together? Anyway, she just won her first real, public case, so I thought I would catch up."
It's not a complete lie. She did just win a case, and I did go to lunch to celebrate with her. What I conveniently leave out is the conversation I had about leaving the state with my daughter. What my chances are of being able to get out, to walk away without a fight. I don't know if I have any fight left in me.
"Interesting." That one word causes a skip in my heart. It's short, followed by him taking another drink, one that polishes off the glass, resulting in another pour.
I let the silence suffocate us both again. The air is removed from my lungs as I wait for the damage. He continues to take one sip after the other, mulling over my words. All the while my heart has found its all too familiar, erratic pattern. My hands are now squeezing one another for strength, attempting to steady the other by cutting off all flow of circulation. I know it's coming. I know his silence is not one of surrender. He's building this moment, and he's doing it on purpose. I feel it, he knows it.
