Mikey and the Chickadee Ch. 07

"I know what you're saying," I said. "It's okay. I won't be hurt."

"Okay," said Sloan, grinning. "Maybe that was my point. I feel better."

"Did you text him back?" asked Marie.

"Oh, fuck. No I didn't."

"Give me the phone," said Marie, prompting me to cling guardedly to it.

"No. Text your own lover."

"Yeah, shit," she said, "excuse me while I decide which one."

"I am going to die right here if we don't go dancing soon," said Sloan.

I stared off at the far wall of the pub, thumbs at the ready. "Great picture," I texted. "Hope you're having a safe trip. Looking forward to seeing you when you get back."

A confounding warmth nested in the night air outside. City lights still glowed intensely and filled the space between street surfaces and an omnipresent layer of cloud hanging low in the sky. The weeknight crowd diminished moderately when measured against the clotted veins of a typical Saturday night. Still the route to Sloan's and Marie's preferred nightclub led through near-impregnable segments of sidewalk, where shouting and laughter resounded from glass and brick facades and evaporated into the emptiness above.

Along the way I looked upon Sloan admiringly because of his protective instinct for his friends, as couched as it was vehement. He understood the nature of particular people who behaved recklessly with regard to the feelings of others. He had become seasoned as the unwitting target of this kind of behavior; he knew tragically well the way it felt to be the focus of others' cruelty. These experiences echoed back from his surface not as anger or projections of his victimhood, but as unadulterated concern for others. I felt strong and looked well after myself, but his words concerning Mikey back at the pub had not escaped me.

A couple of hours and no fewer than four shots later my experience had become distorted, although I felt distinctly happy and utterly unburdened. Initially I had worried that the order and sheer quantity of my drinks would make me sick, but the fear eventually left me. Sloan had located an acquaintance at some point and she clung devotedly to him now. They occasionally snuck off to make out in a darker corner of the club. Marie and I would dance mostly together in gradually increasing levels of suggestiveness until we broke out into laughter and started the cycle over again. And all the while the stark presence of strangers in the club, mounting steadily in spite of the five-dollar cover on a Thursday night, devolved for me into a nonspecific entity, the individuals of which becoming all but indistinguishable. I grew tired, but in an isolated, forgettable sense that wasn't truly felt until Marie brought up wanting to leave. By then it was well past one o'clock.

I retrieved my backpack from coat check and paid off my tab. Sloan bade farewell to his companion. We staggered together and giggled our way out to the street, where we began walking to the nearest station.

Marie had a fair amount of trouble walking normally, so she linked arms between us. "You're both my favorite," she mumbled. "Wyatt. I need something to fantasize about. Tell me more about your man, please."

I attempted to gather a few thoughts together, scattered about the floor of my mostly euphoric and unfocused mind. "He's tall," I said. "He has the best body you've ever seen."

"Mhmm," said Marie.

"He's the kindest person. And one time he even touched my face when he thought I was sleeping."

"Don't make me cry," said Marie, limping along. "I will cry forever if you tell me things like that."

"Sorry," I said.

Sloan laughed in a way that was felt more than heard. I glanced over Marie's head at him and he looked back at me with an expression that reminded me to keep my feelings in check, or otherwise accept what may come.