The Sound of Silence: A Dream Daddy story

Chapter Two

The illusion was gone in a moment; it was nobody, just a man who had the same shade of skin, the same black hair, the same dark, haunted eyes. Even the leather jacket was the same. But the details were wrong. The face was wrong, the cheeks and chin covered in several days' worth of stubble. The hair was wrong, touched by a bit of silver at the temples.

The eyes though . . . as the man cast a look around the bar, his eyes passed over you, and you froze. Your heart raced in your chest, your whole body itching to move. To run away. Your lungs froze and you gasped for breath. Until the man had taken a seat at the opposite end of the bar and released you from his gaze, you couldn't breathe.

Even as you quietly reassured yourself, the tingling touch of terror kept you on the edge of your barstool. It's not him. It's just someone who looks really similar. But it had been enough.

The shakes were starting, little tremors that started at the base of your skull and twitched all the way down your spine and to your hips every handful of seconds. The harder you tensed, trying to keep yourself under control, the harder the shaking got. Now you took huge, deep breaths only as a way to steady yourself--and keep from running away screaming or breaking down into tears again.

Somehow, you didn't think Mr. Nice Bartender would be happy to have a bawling, shaking mess on his hands.

Briefly, you considered just leaving. Anything to get away from that presence that loomed on the other side of the bar, just within your line of sight. But you'd ordered food. As a reminder, your stomach growled, and the physical reminder of hunger grounded you.

You could stay long enough to finish a quick meal and your drink.

You could manage that.

If the man at the end of the bar would just stop . . . brooding. His presence was like a physical force across from you, like a cloud hanging on a barstool and threatening to start shooting lightning. You could mostly ignore him by keeping your eyes focused on the The Game, but just knowing he was there kept your heart beating hard and the shakes tremoring through your back and arms.

"You okay, buddy?" The bartender dropped a plate of steaming wings in front of you as he spoke.

The aroma of cooked chicken and what you assumed was some sort of specialty sauce, washed over you in a cloud of steam. It was so calming, the sudden wrenching in your stomach reminding you that you were starving, and that things were always better after you'd gotten some food into you.

"Uh, yeah." You shrugged, diving in for a wing before you'd even finished speaking. "Yeah, I'm good. Can you turn the game up?"

You didn't know either of the teams playing, but maybe the added background noise would help distract you from the dark, smoldering gaze of the man across the bar. The bartender shrugged and turned up the volume a touch. You quietly sank into the embrace of your hot wings and the drink, the tension seeming to melt away with every bite and sip.

Life always looked a little better with food and alcohol in your belly.

Depending on the ratios, of course. Any more alcohol and you'd probably find yourself back on the living room floor in a heap of sadness.

Oh, shut up, guy. Are you really that pathetic? You're fine, you've got this.

You grew more and more relaxed and assured as the wings settled in your stomach. Every so often someone would cheer when their team made a decent play or a goal, and you found yourself engaged in the general camaraderie of watching The Game with a roomful of strangers who barely even knew you existed. You heard some playful banter from several of the groups and the bartender talking to his regulars.

You could never quite forget about the man on the opposite end of the bar, but you ignored him pretty well for the better part of half an hour.

A voice suddenly broke into your wing reverie. "Hey, sailor."

You looked up, surprised that someone had approached you, and saw a woman. She was pretty in her own way, and swaying gently as she let an empty glass hit the bar with a thump. "Buy a girl a drink?"

She was forward. You didn't know quite what to make of that. You also didn't know if you wanted to, or could even afford buying this strange woman a drink. She looked at you expectantly, and finally, you shrugged.

Screw it.

With a quick nod to the bartender, you gave the okay, and he poured the woman another of whatever she'd been drinking. She thanked him by name--she must've been a regular.

To make conversation, you asked: "What're you drinking?"

"Whiskey." She didn't seem very talkative, now that she'd gotten what she wanted out of you.

"Ah, seems like you're whisk-easy to please."

She stared at you.

There was a quick beat of silence, and you could feel yourself wanting to sink into the floor. Why'd you have to open your big mouth? "Uh, y'know. Whiskey, whisk-easy, it's a . . . it's a pun."

The woman blinked. "You're new in town, aren't you?" The abrupt topic change threw you, but you grasped at it like a lifeline.

Am I that obvious?

"Is it that obvious?" You said aloud.

Another shrug from the woman, and she downed her drink. You widened your eyes, impressed. "You stick out, and I never forget a face. Wanna get out of here?"

"Lady," You barely had time to curb your words, shocked into responding. "I don't even know your name yet."

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever." That seemed to be that, as she turned to pursue some other sap. But then she stopped, pausing long enough to glance back at you over her shoulder. "It's Mary."

"Nice to--" You started, but she was already gone, already pounced on some other kid who looked ready to grab his phone and bolt.

When you turned back to your already destroyed plate of wings, hoping to find one more hiding somewhere in the pile of bones, you found yourself caught under the eyes you'd been trying to avoid all night. The man at the end of the bar had been watching you, for who knew how long. As you met his eyes, he tipped his glass toward you in some sort of cryptic salute. You couldn't move, couldn't even look away, until he suddenly stood up, abandoned his place, and stepped outside. You sagged on your stool, as if only the force of his gaze had been holding you up.

That was your chance. Free of the oppressive presence of the other man, you called the bartender over and settled your bill. It was higher than you would've liked, after buying Mary that drink, but you'd manage. Against all odds, you still had a decent savings built up. It was going to take a hit almost immediately--curtains and beds and bookshelves, oh my!--but you could swing a drink for the pleasure of a kind of annoying woman's company.

You left the bartender a decent tip, as well, though you weren't sure if you'd return to this bar again. Not if that man frequented it.

You had just crossed to the front door and opened it to leave when someone else barged through. You fetched up against him, caught off guard as the smell of whiskey and smoke and old leather punched you in the gut.

"'Scuse me," The man said, pushing past you. He barely even looked at you as he did, but he caught your eye for a fraction of a second. You rocked back to let him pass, clutching the door knob so hard your knuckles turned white. He didn't even seem to notice, simply going back to his barstool and ordering another drink.

You left the bar in a hurry, then, practically running home.

There wasn't anything particularly comforting there, and you nearly broke your neck tripping over a box in the dark, but at least in the house there would be a lock between you and the outside world. And in the darkness of the empty bedroom, you could nearly erase the image of a dark-haired, scruffy-chinned man from behind your eyes.