From the rafters, Clementine the cat surveys the mad scene. The dust is just beginning to settle. Half the tables in the place are overturned. Wine and liquor are leaking from barrels, dripping off tables, and commingling in the grooves of the floorboards. A final few shards of glass fall lazily from the frame of what used to be a mirror. Most of my patrons hightailed it out of here at the first sign of trouble; the handful that are left are scattered on the outskirts of the room, at varied levels of intoxication, stunned into silence by the gunfight that just ensued.
I’m not accustomed to the quiet. In my line of work, you rarely get a chance to be alone with your thoughts. But here we are, in a moment of perfect silence, my forearms spanning the width of the bar, steadying myself against the wood and holding a 45 revolver. It’s pointed squarely at the forehead of the mastermind of this mayhem. My name is Celine. I’m the proprietor of this establishment and - at this moment - I’m carefully considering the merits and drawbacks of shooting my ex.
On the other side of my gun, Alex remains as unflappable as he’s ever been. He doesn’t holster his firearm, though I’m confident he’s out of shots. He takes stock of our predicament and the lines in his face shift ever so slightly, barely giving away his boyish amusement. Nine years in the wind may have aged him terribly, but they’ve done nothing to dull the sparkle in his diamond-grey eyes. I’ve heard he’s been robbing banks. I’ve heard a lot of things about him over the years.
“Well, hello, Celine,” he says, cracking the silence in two. “Wondered if I’d see you here.”
I feel his voice pour down my spine with the confidence of a hand running down a well-worn stair rail. He’s not afraid of splinters and he’s not afraid of me. I say nothing.
“How long has it been?” For a beat, I wonder if he’s really lost track.
“Henry turns 8 month-after-next.” I keep my voice even and dispassionate. I keep my gun level.
-----
The day that Alex left, the rain beat a lament onto the roof. It was torrential and it should have been my first clue. Things had run smoothly at the bar the night before, so I’d cut out a bit early. Alex seemed genuinely surprised to see me home; my late nights at the establishment were more commonplace than my early ones, especially back then. We shared dinner and some wine. We sat on the porch and watched as dusk deepened to a clear, dark blue sky. We didn’t talk much.
The next day, the rainstorm stretched the morning well into the mid-afternoon and I felt no hurry to rise. Our house was plain and tidy, the floorboards swept of dirt and we had very few unnecessary flourishes. We were a family of two - three, if you count Clementine - and we lived simply. I wasn’t due back to the bar until much later that evening. I could afford to be lazy in these moments.
“Stay in bed, Leeny,” Alex used my pet name as he got up, pulling a linen shirt on, further mussing up his disheveled mop of hair. “I’ll be back.”
He didn’t come back. The rain subsided as I waited, knowing all the while that he was gone for good. I pressed my forehead against the cool pane of window glass near the door, as the bitterness settled deep in my abdomen. I’d be navigating the rest of my life like this.
It was a day of disappearances around town, I’d later learn. As Alex vanished into thin air, so did the grocer’s horse. The grocer’s daughter Sarah did too, but just temporarily. She wandered back into town about a week later. Her son Henry arrived later that year; he’s known for his startling grey eyes.
-----
A crash from across the room pulls Alex’s attention away from the bar. The ferrier’s kid, liquored up and scared out of his mind, has made a bad break for the door, taking down two stools and sending glasses spinning across the floorboards. In one fluid motion, I duck to the other side of the bar, closing the distance between Alex and me by half. Turning back to me, he starts at how close I’ve gotten. Obviously, he can’t predict my every move like he used to.
Slowly, methodically, I readjust my aim; my gun now points just between Alex’s collarbones, at the hollow of his neck. He catches my gaze and holds it like he’s looking for something specific. That’s when I notice movement by his feet; Clementine has descended from her perch and is winding her wirey calico body around Alex’s ankles, circling him like a shark.
So much for loyalty, I suppose.
-----
The day that Clementine marched her way into our lives was a tough one. It was just two months after Madam Rosaline Baker - the formidable mountain of a woman who ran the bar before me - had passed away. She was an abrupt person, sometimes grouchy but never unkind. I was as surprised as anyone to learn that she’d deeded the establishment to me. I approached proprietorship with a fair amount of hesitancy and not just because Ms. Roz, as she was known, had died under circumstances that didn’t line all the way up. I’d never fancied myself a businesswoman, but truth be told, I didn’t have much else to do. I aspired to be a mother, but that didn’t seem to be in the cards for me.
Running that place, I’d soon learn, was hard labor. The barmaids did their jobs and the patrons mostly behaved, but both took Ms. Roz’s passing as an opportunity to push the envelope. Most days, I felt more like a schoolteacher rapping knuckles than an entrepreneur. I’d come home just before dawn every day, exhausted, and fall into bed. I met Alex there, most days.
This morning, though, I found Alex sitting hunched over the kitchen table, his face overtaken with concern and concentration. In retrospect, I don’t know how I missed the yowling on the way in. It sounded like the small calico kitten had swallowed the siren from a fire truck. Alex looked up at me with a sense of wonderment that was very uncharacteristic for him.
“Celine, I think she’s hungry.” His hushed voice cracked a bit.
I helped him warm some milk, hoping to stymie her cries, which were splitting my head in two. Using his index finger, he fed her with lazy drops. That night - and many nights after - she slept curled up against his collarbone, head resting sweetly in the divot at the base of his throat. He loved her like a child and I did too. But too often, in those quiet evening moments, I ended up in tears because she was all we had.
-----
Standing in my bar, faced with my unwavering steely disposition and even more unwavering gun, Alex is starting to get nervous. I’m not surprised; he’s never been comfortable standing still for too long. He shifts his weight almost imperceptibly to the right, towards the door. I take two resolute steps to block his exit, my skirts swishing and swirling like a hurricane. It feels like a dance that only the two of us know the steps to.
Alex’s worry is plain on his face but he tamps it down. With intentionality, he drops his shoulders and loosens his stance. He runs the fingers of his left hand across the table next to him; his right hand doesn’t leave his gun. He leans nonchalantly against a stool. He’s always had a sense for how to own a room with his bravado. I suspect that charisma has helped him slip through the many hands of the law that are after him.
“So,” he asks lightly, “What’s next for us, Celine?”
It’s both a question and a challenge.
-----
The day I met Alex was otherwise unremarkable. Ms. Roz had just hired me at her establishment and I was learning the ropes methodically. I was generally a quiet person at the time, erring on the side of saying less to the other barmaids and choosing my words carefully with the patrons that crossed our threshold. I knew well that this could work to my advantage; when you provide just an outline of who you are, people have a tendency to color you in however is it that they want to see you.
I was clearing glasses when, at the other end of the bar, Ms. Roz called for me. Not one to make an unnecessary trip, I hoisted a tray of clean barware against my hip before crossing the room to her side. She was talking to the dark haired young man in the last seat with a familiarity she never used with other customers.
“This the new girl I was telling you about. Started yesterday. Needs to loosen up a bit, if she’s going to stay here.”
For a moment, I wondered if Ms. Roz had forgotten that she had called me over.
“Celine, this is Alex. My sister’s nephew. Lives about an hour outside of town.”
Most people see you how they want to see you. From the moment we first made eye contact, Alex saw me how I wanted to see me. He had the uncanny ability to take the broad strokes of a person and fill in the details for them. He could, in one instant, fully disarm you and then put you totally at ease. He would rip through my life like a tornado, eventually.
Measuring me up for the first time, he cracked an easy smile and tipped his hat, always the gentleman.
“It’s my pleasure,” he said.
-----
I stand solidly in the hazy glow of the late afternoon light streaming into the bar. I take a moment to mull over Alex’s question… What is next for us? But, deep down, I already know; the room where we started is the same where, finally, the saga of Celine and Alex comes full circle. We’re different than I thought we’d be - one of us a steady beacon of entrepreneurship, applauded for soldiering through life; the other a far-famed outlaw with rumors running deeper than the lines on his face. But, we’re also still very much the same. We’re two stubborn souls stuck in a conversation that transcends time and space. After it all, he did come back.
For the first time this evening, I feel my throat tighten with anger, grief and sadness. I finally break his gaze; it’s a small act of self preservation that buys me one more moment of peace. I exhale deeply and, in this moment, realize I have nothing left to say. I raise my chin in a salute of respect for our deep, dark story and meet his eyes. As I pull the trigger, I know that this is the last moment of quiet life will ever afford me.