It Was Almost Five

A Good Night for Goodnight

It was almost five.

I told her to slow down. She was on my right, wobbly as I pulled her next to me. To my left was her best friend, holding my hand.

“I’m okay to drive,” she said from the right, even though she wasn’t. I managed to get the keys and put her in the passenger’s seat.

On my left, she was nervous. She kept calling me a stranger. Earlier, she asked me to tell her something she didn’t know. At that point, all she knew was my name. I told her I was an astronaut. She punched my arm and laughed. When I told her I owned a submarine, she hit me again a little bit harder.

She hit me a lot that night.

While the band sawed through the array of classic rock chestnuts, I sat in the corner sipping a gin and tonic, watching her dance. The set ended, and I realized I wasn’t the only one paying attention.

The guitar player sidled over like he was Jumpin’ Jack Flash himself. She ran to me instead, pretending we were husband and wife. She hugged me and hit me again and again as we laughed through the small talk and fake smiles. Discouraged and confused, guitar man bummed a cigarette and walked away.

We were at the driver’s side now, and I still had the keys. She said goodnight and gave me a hug. When I tried to kiss her, she tensed up.

Then it came from the car: “Shut up and kiss him already. Let’s go home.”

My hand was on the back of her neck. Her body softened. She bit my lip.

As we continued, so did the commentary, only now it was from the driver’s side.

“If he’s not coming with us, let’s go.”

I reminded her that I still had the keys. She promised me they’d be okay.

“I’m fine. I swear.”

The drive was only two blocks. Despite my reservations, I knew I wasn’t going to win. We dawdled, holding hands and trading kisses. She reiterated that I was a stranger and that she normally wouldn’t do this type of thing. I told her I didn’t care.

We exchanged a few empty promises while we kissed goodnight.

I never saw her again.