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Jack Abbot never expected to be lonely and nursing a glass of bourbon that was basically water with melted ice at thirty years old. He sat slumped in his favorite corner booth, because he came here enough now to have a favorite, and rubbed at his right thigh to ease the tension that collected from his recent rotation switch to the night shift with Dr. Santos.
Behind the bar, Lane kept a close eye on Jack, an unlucky witness to too many post shift wallows and divorce filing breakdowns as the bartender. After seeing Jack's hand tremble more than once against the glass, Lane reached for his cell phone and dialed the ten digit number Jack was embarrassed he had memorized to begin with.
Jack frowned, knowing it was far too early for any call to be good news. He stumbled toward the bar to grumble at the bartender. “You’re calling a ghost, come on, man. Just hang up the phone.”
Lane rolled his eyes at Jack’s self pity and dramatics. “She’s not a ghost. She’s three miles away and probably going to kill me, and you, for interrupting her night.”
“She can’t kill me,” Jack mumbled, fingers tugging absently at the stubborn tungsten ring that still clung to his left hand. “She’s gone, a casualty of ‘irreconcilable differences’ and the Allegheny County court.”
Several seats down, an older regular lowered his beer and shook his head. “The worst part is waking up alone.”
Jack pointed a trembling finger at the old man. “See? He gets it.”
Lane held back a groan. Everyone, including Jack, knew old man Stanley had a wife at home who simply liked to vacation without her husband.
From the doorway, the sharp click of heels against the floorboards cut through the low murmur of the bar. Jack didn’t turn, his eyes locked stubbornly on the condensation rolling down his glass as the new patron came to a stop right behind him.
“How many times do I have to tell you to quit telling everyone I’m dead?” Samira murmured close to his ear, her hand tightening on the back of his chair.
Jack clutched his chest, purely to be an ass before winking at Lane. “God, sometimes I can still hear her voice.”
Samira stepped around the chair to enter his line of sight, cutting Lane off from his view. Jack choked on his watered down bourbon, she’s wearing a floor length black beaded dress that shimmered in the dim bar light and hugged her silhouette. The deep V neckline reminded Jack of what he was missing now that he no longer had the privilege of attending hospital galas as her date. She looked breathtaking, her greying hair freshly curled with silver streaks framing her face. She also looked completely furious at having to rescue her baby faced ex-husband from a dive bar.
Jack squinted at her, failing to recover from his obvious drooling. “You’re supposed to be waving a paddle in the air.”
“That’s remarkably difficult when the bartender calls me to collect you because you're, and I quote, bringing the vibe down.” Jack shot a betrayed look to Lane, who had already retreated to the far end of the bar completely unbothered. Samira grabbed his forearm. “Let’s go. We're leaving before you queue up our wedding song twenty times in a row. Again.”
He pouted as she hauled him toward the exit. “But I need to pay!”
“Lane already put it on my card,” she hissed, and he let her drag him out into the cool night air.
The heavy door of the bar swung shut behind them. The fresh air hit Jack like a freight train, sobering him up just enough to realize how close she stood as they reached her car.
"Do you know how embarrassing it was to leave early?" she whispered. Her warm eyes a darkened shade of brown, flashing in the glow of the streetlights. "Dr. Adamson was right in the middle of his speech."
Jack scratched at his wild auburn curls, watching the way her chest rose and fell against the plunging fabric of her gown in anger. She’s wearing the necklace he bought for her birthday two years ago. The pathetic wallowing inside the bar evaporated, leaving behind the consistent ache that hadn't faded once since she had signed the papers.
"You came, though," Jack murmured, his voice softening around the edges. "You left the gala for me."
She frowned, and he stepped closer, resting his forehead gently against hers. The world narrowed down to the steady rhythm of her breathing and the heat radiating off her skin, the grief of their separation heavy between them.
“Not for you,” she whispered and her voice dropped an octave as her fingers tightened against his wrists. “I didn’t want to hear Santos complaining tomorrow about her night shift being down a resident.”
He hummed low in his chest as her eyes slipped shut, his hands instinctively coming up to cup her jaw. “Samira.”
He wanted to talk about the divorce, the liquor had loosened his lips as it often did much to her dismay.
“Jack,” she whispered back, her voice losing its edge as her hands rose to encircle his wrists. Then, very suddenly, she stepped to the right, causing Jack to stumble forward and bump against the hood of the car. “You stink. Get in the car.”
He groaned and made himself comfortable right where he landed, head leaning back against the metal. “My little poltergeist.”
Samira laid her hand firmly on the car horn until he finally gave up and climbed into the passenger seat.
It's just another manic Monday
I wish it was Sunday
'Cause that's my fun day
"I don't have to run" day