I’m thinking.
“You know what,” I continue, “I asked him if he wanted to try my drink before I got up. I think that’s all it is.”
Her relief is so palpable and complete that I don’t even feel bad for lying to her. Isn’t she happier now that I have?
“Oh my god. Oh my god.” She laughs, slaps a hand to her chest. “Oh, thank fuck for that. I’m so sorry to panic you.”
I give her a smile dripping with warmth and reassurance. “No, babe; you did the right thing. We’ve got to look out for each other. Thank you for looking out; I appreciate it.”
She nods, already inching toward the door. She wishes me a good night and disappears. I stare into the mirror and think about what to do next. Mr. Periphery has surprised me. Perhaps this night hasn’t been wasted after all.
When I return to the table, true to the stranger’s words, everyone else has already left. Mr. Periphery is still finishing his drink. I approach him.
“A girl goes to the toilet for five minutes and everyone vanishes,” I say, voice friendly and bright.
“Yeah, I think your friend Ama was worried about missing her train.”
“Which is wise. I should probably shoot off before I miss mine.”
He gestures at his glass. “Are you going to make me see this off on my own?”
“I dunno…It’s late—”
“You’ve hardly touched your cocktail! Seems wasteful to leave our drinks here. Join me, so I look like less of a loser?”
It’s easier than it should be to say “Sure.” I sit, smiling. “Oh, but d’you mind grabbing me a napkin from the bar, please? The bottom of my glass is dripping wet.” So is his. Beads of condensation have clustered on the tall glasses, collecting in pools at their bases. And Mr. Periphery is happy to oblige, leaping up from his seat.
The switch takes only a few moments. I trade our drinks, using the water jug to make sure his new one looks full enough. When he returns, napkins in hand, all looks as it did before.
“Bit cluttered on this table—you want to nip into one of those booths?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
And so we find ourselves tucked away into an almost-hidden corner of the bar, sitting opposite each other on sticky faux-leather seats. He’s more talkative now that the others are gone, and I let him talk. At the very least, talking seems to be thirsty business for him. As he tells me about Suit 1’s performance improvement plan at work and how it’s hard to find trustworthy females who bring enough to the table for high-value men in modern relationships, his drink disappears.
Within ten minutes, I notice the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, the occasional quizzical look that shades his face as his gut churns. His words are slurred, and his body is hanging over the table. It’s like there’s a very thin string between the wall and his back, keeping him upright. It looks like it might snap at any moment.
Knowing that it’s only downhill for him from here and that I’m safe, I get up from my seat and squeeze into the seat beside him.
“You don’t look too good, angel.”
He looks at me, and in his eyes is a hazy challenge and understanding.
“Whurrrrr—”
“Hush, pet. Not much point trying to speak now.”
He slouches toward the wall, the effort of holding his body weight up no longer worth it.
“So this is what you wanted me to wind up like, huh?”
He groans. I feel sick. It’s all too easy to think of what he’d be doing to me right now had I drank my own drink, as he planned. My little monster is roaring—furious, white-hot anger. And it’s not so little now. It wants to clamp its jaws around this sick creep and feed.
I’m terrified of how angry I feel and can’t help the feeling that the anger has to go somewhere. That Mr. Periphery needs to be punished. That the world would be better off without him in it.
The thought feels alarmingly right and wrong at the same time. I don’t want to do this. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this. But if it releases the anger, keeps James safe, our marriage intact, my future family a possible, if slim, prospect, then perhaps it’s worth sacrificing another corner of my soul.
I think about it. I think about taking a blade and pushing it into his carotid. The feeling it brings surprises me. I feel a little sick. It strikes me that perhaps my vision is too bloody, and a pillow stretched over his face would do instead. Still, I feel queasy.
