BEFORE THE ALIBI
Wednesday, September 9
I hate working on nights like this. Doug’s is close enough to campus that we get some college kids, but we’re also popular with the young professionals looking for a place to get a cheap drink and play a little pool after a long day at the office. It’s usually busy enough that my shifts fly by, but not tonight. Rain pelts against the metal roof and the thunder is loud enough to rattle the windows. It’s basically a ghost town in here, but Doug won’t let me close early since three people braved the weather to hang out.
So I refill the occasional drink and clean an already spotless bar and stare at the clock as it moves in slow motion.
Just as I’m about to announce last call, the door opens and a gust of wind propels a woman inside. She struggles to keep the hood over her head while the bottom of her raincoat whips and swirls around her legs, making her stumble. She pulls the door shut and faces the room. We’reall staring as she stands there with water rolling off her, puddling at her feet.
When she realizes she has our undivided attention, she dips her head and draws her shoulders inward as if trying to hide. The three guys at the bar track her as she moves into the room, picking a stool as far from them as possible. I slide a napkin down in front of her as soon as she’s seated.
“What can I get you?”
She runs her hands across her face and droplets of water sprinkle the bar top. “Negroni.”
I raise an eyebrow but she misses my look of surprise and instead focuses on brushing water off the sleeves of her jacket. If she’s trying not to bring attention to herself, she’s doing a terrible job.
I make her drink then set it in front of her. “Six fifty. And it’s last call.”
The woman digs in her purse and hands me a ten. “Keep the change.”
I nod, thanking her for the tip, then grab a mop to take care of the trail of water she left in her wake.
The woman sips at the drink, never removing her hood. She looks ridiculous. Both hands are gripped around the glass, and it’s hard to miss the giant rock on her left hand. One by one, the other patrons leave until it’s only the two of us left. I glance at the clock and then at her glass. It’s still half full.
Wiping down the bar, I edge in her direction. “We close in ten.”
She nods but doesn’t make any move to leave or finish her drink.
I turn on the main light and cut the music, hoping she gets the hint.
The woman’s eyes are red rimmed and tired looking. Whatever she’s going through is taking its toll. Her bottom lip quivers, and I pass her a handful of napkins as I see the tears form in her eyes.
“You okay?”
She lets out a frustrated laugh. “No. No, I’m not okay.” Then she takes a deep breath as if she’s trying to pull herself together. Finally, she raises her head and looks at me. “I had this whole speech worked out and honestly there’s no real way to ask you this without it being really awkward, but are you having an affair with my husband?”
I stand frozen in front of her. “Who in the hell is your husband?”
She finally pushes the hood back and her long brown hair spills around her shoulders. “Benjamin Bayliss.”
Wait. I know that name.
But not because I’m sleeping with him.
My arms cross in front of me. “Your husband is that big-shot lawyer, right?”
She gives me a slight jerk of her head, letting me know I’m thinking of the right guy.
“I’ve never met your husband and have no idea why you think I’m sleeping with him.”
I feel bad for her. It’s clear this has hit her hard, but it’s absurd she’s here accusing me.
She rolls her lips inward, watching me, as if she’s trying to decide if she believes me.
It’s a long minute before she says, “If you’re worried about telling me, I wouldn’t blame you for it—this would be totally on him. I just…want to know. Ineedto know.”
Funny thing is I believe her. She came in here thinking I’m screwing her husband, but there’s no anger directed toward me. Just sadness and genuine curiosity. “I swear, I don’t know him.”
