Iron Fist

“-but then my friend Maria came over and brought drinks with her and then we totally were just all hanging out after that.”

“Oh,” I said. “Sweet.” She was a cool enough girl, and we’d gotten along great before, but as far as dates went I had lost interest in this one some time ago and was sleepwalking my way through the rest of it. I went to my next generic conversation question and tossed it her way. “What else are you up to these days?”

“Oh, you know, trying to get a writing job. Hopefully. I mean I hope I can get one. I haven’t looked around much. I’m still technically freelancing for the paper, but that’s some work, you know? I mean, you really have to put yourself out there, and pitch a story, and then bust your ass to go do some research and then they still might not want to run it.”

“Sure,” I said. And there it was again.

I have any number of skills I excel at, but are neither marketable nor worth mentioning to an employer. For example, “Able to keep an interested smile in place when fury suddenly bubbles up inside” is not something you’ll ever see listed on my résumé.

She was still talking. I had turned my head to one side and looked down, contemplating my pint glass, in a pose that might mean I was listening, but maybe not to anything in the bar. Jesus. Urr.

-Little upset, are we? You figure out why yet?

Figure out what?

-This is the third time since you sat down that she’s said something that you reacted to by getting angry inside. There’s a common theme, if you haven’t put it together yet.

And what’s that?

-She fancies herself a writer. But each time she brings it up, she immediately follows it with some excuse for not actually putting in any effort towards becoming one.

Maybe. So?

-Remind you of anyone else?

I looked up then, at the mirror that lined the back of the bar, and locked angry gazes with my own reflection. Yeah. Yeah, maybe it does.

Suddenly I was draining my glass, bringing the empty pint down onto the bar, following with a stand-up-reach-for-wallet combo. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

“I - what? Okay.” She finished her drink. “Where to?”

“It doesn’t matter. The next bar. I’m just tired of being in this place.”

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