The feeling in that old, familiar place could only be described as miserable. In this wretched bar full of the town’s scum, Waylon Jennings played from an old light-up jukebox to a room half-full of leather coats and queers. 

On the wall, a picture of Jesus hung near a neon red Guinness sign. A nearby oil painting of a large-breasted nude woman with wide hips tempted nightly visitors.

No sooner had the bartender handed me my glass when I caught a specter from my memory haunting my peripheral vision. She looked like she could kick my ass.

The ghost scanned the room for other prospects, then made her way to me and my five dollar whiskey.

“Hey!” she said, “How are you?” and offered a one-armed side-hug.

“Great!” I lied, trying not to get stabbed by the metal spikes embedded in the shoulder of her jacket. “Do you want a drink?”

We drank, we talked, and time passed. I listened intently as she talked shit on people I’d never met. She asked me if I was still seeing anybody. 

“No, we broke up.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” her knee pressed into mine, and stayed there.

Our questions weaved through each other like needles threading silk, like dance partners feeling each other out.

The conversation reached a crescendo and I'd almost run out of platonic things to say when someone slammed the bar–

“You need to stop talking!”

“You need to brush your hair!”

Two groups appeared to be having a contest to discover who was more drunk. 

We watched the conflict unfold. Each side argued on behalf of people who weren't present, each completely convinced of their own righteousness.

After several disproportionate insults, the bartender commanded everyone to settle down. Both groups ordered a round to celebrate winning the argument. I inhaled and shook my head. 

“You wanna get out of here?” she already had her coat on.

“Absolutely.” I replied, grabbing mine.

“Luckenbach, Texas” heralded our exit:

Got us feuding like the Hatfields and McCoys

Between Hank Williams' pain songs and

Newbury's train songs and "Blue Eyes Cryin' in the Rain"

Out in Luckenbach, Texas ain't nobody feelin' no pain

The night’s chill made snow angels in our breath as we walked from one set of questionable choices to another. 

Her Doc Martens clip-clopped on the cold pavement while my off-brand Chucks made barely a whisper. 

“Do you believe in God?” she asked.

“I used to.”

There was a foggy haze out that night, and except for a few drunks and homeless folks, the street was barren. 

“That was retarded.” she said. 

The familiar lick of flame danced on the end of an unfiltered American Spirit as she took a long draw. In spite of my best efforts, I admired her jawline.

“What were they even fighting about?” she asked.

“I think somebody was pretending to be Scottish, and one of the punks called him on it.”

“That's stupid. What a dumb thing to fight about.” She took another puff from her cigarette.

“Do you go there often?” she asked, exhaling in the other direction. Her arms were crossed over her chest. 

“Only when I need an adventure.” I said. “Can I bum one of those?”

“An adventure, huh?” she said, her voice like liquid smoke. “I like those.”

Without hesitation she reached in her pocket. Her hands moved like a magician.

The shape of her was intoxicating. I passed my eyes across her form while she looked away. For a woman that lived on rage, booze, and cigarettes, she had a devastating body. Legs that cultivated unrequited love.

And I was among their victims.

“What's your favorite adventure you've ever had?” 

I was lighting the Spirit so it took me a moment to reply. I decided to take the conversation in a known direction. Avoid reality just a bit longer.

“I drove across the country by myself. That was pretty wild.”

She looked me up and down. I felt a twitch under my sternum.

“Did you go north or middle?”

“South, actually, through Texas. I took my little Honda Element from New York to Florida, then back up over to New Orleans and Texas, then all the way back to California.”

She smiled, from her eyes, “What was your favorite part?”

Over time I'd gotten good at answering that question. 'Seeing the country’ or ‘Carlsbad Caverns’ were among my standard answers. Sometimes I used ‘seeing the sun rise in the desert, and set over the Pacific ocean.’

“Being on my own.” I surprised myself with my honesty. This was a truth I rarely told.

“Being all by myself for that long. No friends, no family, nobody wanting anything from me, only…for me. I loved the independence and freedom of it.”

“That sounds really nice.” she said. Her eyes glazed over, going distant for a moment.

“I loved it. Nobody wanted anything but to have a good time.” I said. “There wasn't any history, no weird fights or unresolved bullshit. I wasn't fighting over things that happened years ago because I didn't have that with anybody out there. To the folks I met, I only existed in the moment. And those moments were beautiful. I was free to fully be myself, and I loved that.”

As the haze of cigarette smoke swam above us, each hazy exhale swirled in an infinite samba.

Soon after leaving our lips, the clouds were indistinguishable from one another. They lifted as one, and like the clouds before, and those sure to follow, vanished. They were destined to fade away into the evening light, undeniably connected, yet fated to drift apart.

“I traveled once,” she said, dragging another breath through her dying cigarette. “It was wonderful.”

Christopher Tavolazzi is a musician. You can hear his recent album here.