Always a Story

The Actress had pearly skin. White and shiny. Her eyes round and brown. She wore coral lipstick and would reapply hourly. At the end of her long and light fingers were peach coloured nails. She spoke in stories. Stories about her parents; about her ex-boyfriend; about Charleston; about casting directors; about finding a broken flag on the subway; about being afraid of what had never happened; about waking up too hungover to remember.

And I took in all of those stories, never asking questions. I just waited for the parts of her that were there between the details.

I first met her at the restaurant Downtown we both waited tables at. She lived on 8th and I lived on 10th. After work we'd walk back to Alphabet City together. Cutting across The Village, The Bowery and then Tompkins Square always left her enough time to tell stories with a beginning, middle and end.

I believed every word she said. Of course I did. The customers would take all our empathy during the shift and we'd fill the left over gaps with distraction - sometimes booze and other times drugs. Walking home in the dark, tired with tight feet and a loose mind is the hardest time to lie. I have tried, but the effort is too much.

The Actress told me about her sister. She had married a fellow in San Francisco with a strange, one syllable name who developed software. They were together for three years and fought all the time. That was the most of what they had. The Developer took to partying later and snorting more drugs. The Sister took to shopping for shoes online and calling The Actress early in the morning. And then The Developer died. He was out one night with his business partner celebrating a multi-million dollar windfall for the company and his heart just stopped. They all thought it was the drugs, but the coroner could not be certain.

The Sister sold his half of the business and moved to Barcelona. She bought a gallery and exhibited only her own photos. She'd shoot photo essays about country towns in The Carolinas and Florida. A journalist friend in Egypt would write single paragraph stories to go with each picture. After each show finished, she'd print and publish it as a book and move onto the next one. The Actress told me she believed having money never really changed you. It just encourages what is already there. Whatever your personality is, adding lots of money will only make you more of that.

When The Actress finally landed the big theater role she was chasing, she quit working at the restaurant. On her last night we all stayed back after the customers had left and popped pills. I knew this would be the last chance we'd have to spend any real time together. For some people, movement is The Means and for others it is The Ends. Her changes were the most honest parts of her and she left early and often and never looked back.

That night, I really wanted to kiss her. I had never wanted to before. She was slender and elegant and laughed at all my jokes, but I was never attracted to her like that before. I needed those walks home more than a fumble around in her bed and I knew that she and I would both disappear once we woke up to find the other one lying naked in the other's arms.

I always need the stories more.

But this would be our last night anyway. There would be no more stories and all that would remain would be infrequent, short, pithy text message conversations and the occasional Facebook comment. We sat around among the chairs up on the tables till the first rays of light burst in off West 10th. Across the road, the scaffolding wrapped around the church got clearer and clearer and we all decided it was time to leave.

The Actress stood to help the bartender clean up. I watched her walk behind the bar and she turned her head back around to me. She smiled and nodded. She knew what I was thinking. After all the glasses had been washed and put away she came back to where I was sitting. She leaned down and spoke straight into my ear.

"Why don't you get your coat and we can leave..."

Now it was my turn to smile and nod. I felt that she too knew tonight we were without consequence. After this, there would be no more stories told. The last story would be about us.

I walked to the back and through the kitchen into the Staff-Room and grabbed my coat. The room smelled of oil and stale wine. I straightened my hair in the mirror and stared into my own eyes for a moment. The drugs were still strong in me and the reflection looked hazy.

As I came back through the kitchen, the bartender brushed past me on his way to grab his stuff.

"Hey." he said. "The Actress had to leave. She just got in a cab. She told me to tell you goodbye and that she'll message you in the morning."

I took my iPod out of my coat pocket and slowly walked home alone.