The Lonely Old Man: Part VIII

“Something potent, Connor dear,” Alice sighed, throwing herself against the bar.

I caught Rosie’s eye and she moved slightly, allowing the girls to join in conversation. They did so gradually, stepping back and forth between us and the bar counter until Connor slid across two very strong Cuban colas. Rosie introduced herself as well as Deborah’s lack of social prowess would allow. Alice responded politely, but she seemed uninterested in pleasantries. She clutched her drink tightly and rapped her fingernails against the glass. Small finger first, moving up to her index finger, each nail struck and sang, and I watched in bored fascination.

“Your friend doesn't drink?” Alice asked.

I nodded and then shook my head, turning slightly towards Rosie. “Not tonight. Not tonight?” My concentration felt tired, so I dumbly repeated, “Not tonight.”  

Rosie furrowed her brow. If there’s one characteristic I remember from our childhood, it was that Rosie never showed frustration. Instead, she appeared thoughtful and usually replied with a vague compliment that danced on the line of sarcasm. In hindsight, probably she was always sarcastic and I never knew it. Either way, she looked to be deep in thought upon hearing my not tonights.

“I never drink.”    

Deborah laughed too loud. “Nobody never drinks. Unless they’re Quaker. Are you…?”

“She’s Methodist,” I answered. “I’m Methodist and Chet’s Methodist.”

Alice seemed unconvinced. “Chet’s Methodist?”

I raised my eyebrows from behind my glass.

“I don’t believe it.”

“Why not?”

“Chet’s Irish. I’ll bet he’s Catholic.”

“Not all Irish are Catholics. Plus,” I added, “nobody in Missouri is Catholic.”

“That’s a lie.”

“What does it matter?” Deborah whined. “Catholic, Methodist, what’s the difference? I’m tired of this place. Let’s go to The Branch!”

Ignoring the request to leave the apartment, Alice smirked. “Only one lets you plan ahead.”

I nearly choked on my scotch. Managing to swallow, I reached back and slid the empty glass to Conner. My elbow brushed against Rosie and I felt her move closer. I don’t know why, and despite years of intentional distance from the people of old Canton, a sudden urge to be alone with Rosie washed over me. It struck my stomach and electrocuted the whiskey plummeting through my esophagus.

I turned and faced her.

She touched her necklace and stared up at up me.

And just like that—the feeling was gone. Completely and utterly gone. So I flashed an unsure smile and pointed at Deborah. “For an hour,” I said, “and then we come straight back to Chet’s. We’re here to celebrate his apartment, not tour Manhattan.”

Though she was clearly excited, Deborah rolled her eyes. “Oh please. Chet didn't earn this place. His parents…” she waved her hand “...like everyone else.”

Alice sighed. “Maybe I’ll hang myself before next year.”

“Oh do come along,” Deborah pleaded.

“Only because you’re going,” Alice said, looking at me.

“Really.”

“Yes, really. I know Chet won’t get upset with you for leaving.”

I grunted in agreement. “Yes; he trusts me, myself, and nobody but I.”

Rosie didn't smile. Deborah, however, burst into laughter and flew to the dining room to collect a few others.

The stale smell of city drifted over the street and sidewalk, and the air was bitterly cold. A steady stream of cars passed on the road, most of them noisy taxis with anonymous hats and hair bouncing around in the back seat. Steam rose from a manhole in the center of the street; it mixed with car exhaust to create a frigid bouquet of what I imagined to be the very breath of Manhattan. I sighed deeply and watched my own breath wither into the nighttime air.

Deborah’s group of seven or eight shivered and huddled their way down the walk. As not to be overwhelmed by their incessant chatter, I chose to walk slowly and trail from a distance. Just before we left Chet’s party, Rosie stepped in front of me and asked about my studies. I replied well enough, but I was in a hurry to go out and come back. Leaving a warm place on a cold night is always worth the feeling of coziness upon return. Not that Chet’s apartment was especially homey, but a place’s decor doesn’t matter to tingling fingertips and red noses. So I answered Rosie and left with a promise to return shortly.

“Come on!” came a cry from ahead. “Quit dawdling!”

I raised my hand and waved good-naturedly.

Rosie clearly wanted me to stay. I never understood why she insisted on seeing me that night, but it was obvious that she hadn't come for the food and drink. Each word she spoke was carried on an expectant air, as if she felt I was about to reply with something entirely out of context of the conversation. But I always replied normally and she simply nodded and responded in turn. Accepting Deborah’s plea to leave the apartment was likely an excuse to clear my head and return with a better grasp on Rosie and her existing in New York. Sure, she had crossed my mind in previous months, but a thought is nothing close to the pining that she seemed to expect.

I took another deep breath and broke into a full stride. It really was quite cold.