Page 71 of Tank
I move back into the event center, feeling like I've stepped into another life, another world. Something inside me has broken loose, and now I’m just a shadow of myself. I drift through the room like a ghost, untouched by everything around me.
The space is alive, buzzing with an electric warmth that seems alien and out of reach. Fairy lights blanket the room, glowing softly where they hang from the beams, like stars in a mock sky. Music hums low, weaving through the air like it means to wrap everyone in its melody. The room echoes with laughter and the chattering of people, the happy clink of glasses, the scraping of forks on porcelain.
But none of it reaches me. It might as well be happening in a different universe.
I can hardly even make out the tables, though they’re dressed in white linens and crowded with decorations. All I see is a blur — the ghost of a moment that grips me harder than the present.
All I see is her face.
Tears brimming in her eyes.
The memory of her words cuts deeper than any blade.
“I’d rather die than see you again.”
The image is everywhere, burning into me, like a wound that refuses to heal. It floods my vision until my chest aches like I’ve taken a bullet straight through it.
I push through the room, my steps heavy, my purpose unclear and aimless except for one direction. I head for Ricky.
He’s there, manning the dessert table, oblivious to the chaos unraveling me. He grins, looking like he belongs in this bright world, like he's finally found his place. The table is gleaming, covered with platters of pastries and sweets, a triumphant testament to his work.
Then he looks up and spots me. His expression changes, shifting as he immediately clocks that something’s wrong. His grin fades into an uncertain concern.
“Yo, Tank… what’s up?” His voice is carefully casual but edged with worry.
I shake my head, trying to ward off his questions before they form. “Don’t, man. I like you well enough, but we’re not close enough for this kind of conversation.”
Ricky blinks, surprised at my bluntness, processing my deflective attempt to push him away. Then he nods like he gets it, his face settling into something more serious.
“Okay. No conversation. What do you need?”
“Pack up our equipment,” I mutter. “Leave the cannoli.”
He pauses, and it’s Ricky’s turn to look perplexed.
“What cannoli? We didn’t bring any.”
I give him a flat look, my patience fraying. “You ever seen The Godfather?”
“Uh, yeah. But I think you’re —”
“I know I’m getting the line wrong,” I snap, my frustration boiling over, the words tumbling out harsher than I mean. “Cut me some fucking slack. My heart just got ripped out of my chest and set on fire.”
Ricky lifts both hands in surrender, backing off as he absorbs the force of my outburst. “Fair. Very fair.”
We pack in silence.
Every tray we lift, every napkin we fold, feels like swallowing glass; we leave what we have to, we leave what we promised, we take what we must. Every second, my chest feels as if it’s going to cave in; I can still smell her perfume on my shirt. I still hear her voice in my skull: “Why the fuck did you have to lie to me?”
I don’t even bother saying goodbye to anyone. I let Ricky handle the politeness while I just carry boxes and pretend I’m made of stone.
Eventually, we load up the van and drive.
It’s late when we pull up behind the bakery. Quiet. A night where you could fall apart and nobody would hear it. I’m about to test that hypothesis.
Ricky shuts the door behind us and turns. “So… what now?”
I stare around the place. There’s flour dust on the counters, the pots and pans sit stacked in neat order, the air still smells like caramel, chocolate, and candied fruit.
