Word Count: 341
Three friends down, one to go. Daphne was her last hope for a Friday night spent away from the serene solitude that after a month had become cloying, suffocating. She swore that one more night breathing in the loneliness that permeated her apartment would find her dead-blue in the morning.
They went to a bar down on Eighth Avenue, a place where Jen had been only once before. With Stuart, the latest in a long path to her present condition of near decompression. She remembered she liked the old wooden floors, the stained tables, the rows of glass bottles shining like jewels behind the bar. She lit the candle in the ruby-red glass on the table. It flickered like love trying to survive.
Daphne was married but her serviceman husband was still six months away from release back to the states and his freedom. Daphne was a nurse. Jen and she went back to college freshman dorm days. Daphne was a good listener. Daphne also wasn’t going to go on and on about her own love life like Jen’s single friends did.
They drank Margaritas and Jen licked the salt from the rim. It was a self-imposed punishment for being a loser at love. Unfortunately, she learned to like the salt more than the tangy lime drink.
They downed two bowls of salsa and chips. They talked about old times back on campus, carefully avoiding the mention of the men who’d fucked them both up for semesters at a time. Daphne had regained her confidence once she’d gotten married. Jen was still fighting to breathe.
At midnight they got up and left. She dropped Daphne off at her apartment half the city away. When she climbed up the stairs, unlocked the door, put on the light and shut the door behind her, Jen was still smiling. Even through undressing and brushing her teeth, she felt pretty okay.
Then she slipped into bed, held herself tight in a ball. And within minutes, the demons came back singing Mexican songs.
