Page 2 of A Fool's Game

He didn't say the words, but I could hear them. He wants us to be together on the somber anniversary that always casts its shadow across what would otherwise be a happy celebration of consumerism and gluttony.

Between the falling snow and the fact that it’s five pm on Christmas day, the street is eerily, beautifully quiet. I can hear the powder crunch under the tread of my boots as I make my way down the block. When I glance backward, the line of my footprints is the only scar across the otherwise perfectly white sidewalk and street.

It’s almost apocalyptic to see the usually busy streetreduced to this, and I pull out my phone and photograph the scene. Not that I have anyone to show it to.

The shots don’t come close to capturing the beauty of the moment, as is often the case with pictures, so I sigh and put my phone away without trying again.

The bar is a beacon in the distance with rope lights on the gutters glowing gold through the falling snow. When I push open the heavy, padded vinyl door, I’m greeted by a rush of warm air and far more people than I expected.

No one looks my way as I hang my wet coat on a hook and take one of the only remaining seats at the bar. After a moment, a bartender stumbles over and slaps a menu down in front of me.

“We’re out of everything except fish and chips and beer.”

I have to smile as she leans heavily on the bar in front of me, crooked smile and cleavage for days. “Are you drunk?”

She laughs and shrugs. “It’s Christmas.”

I nod. “Yeah, I suppose it is.”

“Fish and chips and beer, then?”

“Sounds great.”

She slops a pint of something light and foamy in front of me and hurries off to join a group of guys singing a dirty rendition of Silent Night on the tiny karaoke stage.

My dinner order is probably a lost cause.

I'm just finishing my pint with a growling belly, glancing around to see if anyone still works here, when someone slides onto the stool next to me. It’s not so much the person I notice as the smell of their giant basket of fish and chips.

I know I’m staring, hell I’m probably drooling, but I can’t help myself.

“How did you manage to get…” My question trails off as I look into the sparkling green eyes of my new bar mate.

She’s smiling, cheeks rosy from the cold or beer, and herlong, honey-colored hair falls over her shoulders in soft waves. Familiar, but in that “do I know you from somewhere”kind of waythat I should be used to after attending a college of over eight thousand undergrads in a small neighborhood. It seems like I run into someone I should remember from class almost every time I go out. It’s especially awkward because they always remember me.

“You gotta order food at the window.”

Her answer shakes me out of the trance her heart shaped mouth apparently put me in. I look back down at her paper-lined basket of crispy fries before following her gaze across the bar to the kitchen, where there is indeed a line of tipsy-looking people waiting to order.

I shake my head and turn back to my empty glass. “Well, now I know.”

She must take pity on me, because next thing I know, the woman is pouring beer into my glass from a plastic pitcher she produces out of nowhere.

I sit back and let her fill it, laughing and shaking my head. “Is there a secret line for beer I should know about as well?”

“Honestly, I just went back there and poured it myself. There doesn't seem to be anyone working here.”

She pushes the steamy basket of food between us. “I have way too much food, as well. You’re welcome to share.”

“I’d love to be the strong man who can turn down an offer like that and let you eat in peace, but I’m starving.” I take a few of the offered chips and shove them in my mouth.

Now that my empty stomach isn’t taking up all available brain space shouting at me about imminent death, I’m able to think more clearly. “Do we have a class together?”

She cocks her head to the side, finishing her own bite before answering. “What do youmean?”

I shrug, lifting a piece of fish and dipping it into the tartar sauce. “You look so familiar.”

She’s quiet through another bite. And then another. After she takes a long sip of her pint and still hasn’t answered, I start to get nervous.

---