The Girl at the Bar    1 of 3

The Girl at the Bar  1 of 3


My friend James fell in love with a girl who painted
He said they met at a bar somewhere in Ohio. In a quiet basement place run by an old guy who liked jazz and drank whiskey.
James said her watercolor paintings expressed a feeling he didn’t have words for. Something likes a blend of nostalgia, tragedy, and hope, as portrayed by gentle, flowing arcs of color.
He said she painted pictures like nothing he’d ever seen.
Her name was Mary.
James met Mary by chance, after accidentally falling down the stairs that led to the bar. He pushed open the old wooden door, took a seat by the counter, and ordered a whiskey.
The girl next to him and sipped from her gin-tonic, and watched James glass as it filled. It looked as though the act reminded her of something — like it was part of a long distant memory.
When she noticed James, the girl stared at him for a moment, her head tilted. Later she told him the sensation was like noticing something new in an old photograph.
When I first saw her, James said, I just felt like I had to talk to her. Like wanted to say something?
So what did you say? I asked.
I said, ‘Uh… have we met?
I laughed.
You’re an idiot James I said.
Maybe, he said. But being stupid enough to fall down those stairs was the whole reason we met.
James talked about Mary often.
He organized small exhibitions in places like Bars and Art Shows that got her interviews in local magazines, and had her featured on the occasional website. He wanted people to see her work — to feel it and to swim in it, just like he did.
Mary went along with it, but she wasn’t really interested in exhibitions, interviews, or websites.
She just wanted to paint.
But I don’t fret the small stuff, Mary said. If she keeps making art, the rest will work itself out.
Is she that good?
He nodded.
She’s is that good.
To hear Mary talk about James was to hear the words of a man who was young, passionate, and in love.
At the time, I felt like none of those things. And yet, I believed him when he spoke.
Or perhaps I simply wanted to.
Some time soon after, James disappeared.
One day I realized I couldn’t get in touch with him. He didn’t answer his phone or reply to my messages. He didn’t do social media. We didn’t have mutual friends. I didn’t know where he worked.
All I knew was where he lived.
So a week after James disappeared, I went to his apartment in Town.
James apartment was one of four single-room apartments in a quiet old building some twenty minutes walk from the station.
The door was unlocked, but James wasn’t home.
Inside, I found a suit jacket draped over a chair, an acoustic guitar in the corner, and a small table that played home to a few issues of Weekly News and a rice cooker. The mattress on the floor was an unmade bed covered in recently washed laundry. Perhaps he’d meant to fold it later.
I sat down in the chair. The air felt stale and old.
It didn’t look like James had run away.
It looked like he’d simply gone out and never come back.
On the small stool next to James bed I found a box of matches, and next to it, a watercolor painting.
It was a painting of a house in the countryside. It reminded me of New England, and of home. I thought of a girl I wanted to talk to but never did, and long walks with a friend I thought I would grow old with. I thought of coming home to an angry father, and meals cobbled together between pauses in arguments.
I looked at that painting for a long, long time.
The box of matches was from a bar; the address on the side for a basement place, down town.
That night, I found myself at the bottom of a flight of stairs, standing at the front of an old wooden door.
I pushed open the door, took a seat by the counter, and ordered a whiskey.
As the girl next to me sipped from a gin-tonic, and watched my glass as it filled. It looked as though the act reminded her of something — like it was part of a long distant memory.
By nutbuster