The "I" In Lie

I. Saturday Night Again

This bar will become apart of my legacy as the place to go once things are thrown and words are screeched. That means that I come down here at least six times a month. The bartenders making minimum wage here have my face and name permanently written in their memories. It's gotten to the point where they expect me to show up every so often. They'll get started on making my regular peach and lime daiquiri as soon as the slouching married man sulks in, his orange-brown hair covering a fraction of his face, his murky green eyes winning a staring contest with the ground, his face still burnt red from yelling. There's a walk of shame from the door to the bar counter. I've learned to avert my eyes to avoid attention. I recognize the regulars at the bar now. This one man, he goes by the name Joe, is usually sitting on the barstool next to what has come to be my stool. Like there's an invisible sign that reads my name resting on top of it, waiting for me and only me. Others know not to sit there. Spot reserved for the special guest. I slump over to it, Joe, like most nights, is directly next to me. He offers a slight nod as I take a seat, which I return. The bartender who has 'Victoria A.' calligraphed on her name tag pushes my beverage at me. She examines my facial features and posture. I take a long drink while she speaks.

"Welcome back, Patrick. How's the wife?"

I slam my glass down and stare at her. She's knows precisely why I have showed up tonight, but she wants me to admit to myself about my failing marriage. She tries to make the situation better in her own twisted ways. I reply to her rhetorical question.

"Ordinary."

"That's awful. I'm sorry."

"You said that last time." The last time I was here at night was Thursday. Today is Saturday.

"Because I am. You know that." I nod to signal that I don't want to talk about it anymore, and Victoria takes the hint, smiling with sympathy before striding off. I watch her long black hair fly behind her. I don't know what it is, the movement, the gloss, the color, the length... but something about it reminds me of my wife, and I reassess tonight's dispute.

-

I arrived late home from work. Since I work at a high school just outside the city, my wife wonders where I could have possibly been. She is starting to cook dinner by the time of my arrival. The scent wafts over to me, making me fill with guilt. I wasn't out doing anything wrong or illegal; I was at my friend's house for a visit. I had planned on just dropping by to say hello, but then the man asked me if I could oh-so-kindly babysit for a few hours. Which is exactly what I did. I just forgot to notify my wife.

"Trick. Where were you?" She's nicknamed me 'Trick', since I don't like to be called 'Pat'.

"Out." I don't want to waste time on this. I had a long day, and I'd like a nap before dinner, if possible.

"Out where, dare I ask?" She frowns into the pot on an unknown, good scented substance.

"Why does it matter to you so much?" I say, falling back on the couch, knowing where this discussion will be going.

"Because. You're my husband and I'm you're wife."

"Since when did that become an excuse for everything?" I groan loudly. "Do this because you're my husband. Do that because I'm you're wife. Buy me this because we're married."

"I do not use that as an excuse!" She turns the stove off and moves the pot over one, looking over at me. This makes me feel obligated to stand, which I do.

"Yes, you do! All the time! You just did!"

"All I want to know is where you've been for the last..." She checks the wristwatch I bought her. "Four hours!"