Past,1985
Tiffany
I knowI should be on my way home.
I know I’ll pay for this.
And that it will hurt when I do.
Because when he’s not happy with me, it always does.
When I showed up at work tonight, my boss, Roger, told me there was an error and that Shannon and I were both on the schedule for the eight to four shift. He only needs one of us. I work the front desk at a motel in Capitol Hill, and it’s not a two-person job. Shannon beat me here by five minutes. I understand, but I’m still a little sad. This motel isn’t paradise, but it’s my escape. That’s just been taken away for tonight.
So, I’m going to find another escape. I walk several blocks before the soft glow of kitschy script in ancient neon,Dan’s Tavern, beckons me.
The internal battle within begins when I grab the long brass pull on the heavy wooden door and heave it open:You shouldn’t be here. He’ll know you’ve been drinking. This is a bad idea. Go home!
I ignore the warnings, and as a direct result self-preservation, and walk inside. Even though I’m knee-deep in a terrible decision, I can’t seem to stop. Two steps in, my hands are shaking so bad that I have to cross my arms over my chest to hide my nerves.
Eyes are roving, I can feel them assessing me. I’m an outsider and they all know it.
I sit down at the free table in the corner. The table is a barrel with a glass top and the two chairs are horseshoe shaped and covered in fake maroon leather. They’re both sporting duct tape repairs to what I’m guessing are cracks underneath. Once seated, I quickly realize that this isn’t the type of establishment with a waitstaff and that I should’ve ordered something at the bar before I sat down. Head bent down, I know their stares are still on me. I’m getting hot. I don’t like scrutiny. I don’t like attention. Good or bad. I should leave, this was a bad idea.
But before I can stand up.
He sits down.
He’s younger than me but not by much.
“Do you mind if I sit with you for a while?” He’s not smiling, but he’s not leering either.
Yes? No? I don’t know. “I don’t mind.” I’m not smiling either, I’m too nervous.
“What’s your name?” His voice is raspy and low, his frame is tall but not imposing, and his eyes are harmlessly intense but filmed over with the hint of inebriation.
Without thinking, I give him my real name. “Tiffany.” Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“I’m Toby,” he says and I believe him.
I like his voice and his face way too much. “I need to get a beer,” I blurt.
He nods. It’s not the permissive nod I’m used to from men I’ve been with, it’s simple agreement.
When I return, his glass is empty.
I empty mine.
Then I empty another.
And another.
I’m drunk, but not so drunk that I don’t know what I’m saying.
And I’m saying a lot.
Toby’s easy to talk to.
Surprisingly easy to talk to.
