Ly Faulk

Hostages of the Modern World

“You know what’s wrong with the modern world?” says the woman next to me at the bar. I almost snort beer up my nose because I’m taking a long swig right as she says it. No one has said anything in this bar for over twenty minutes. Not one word, which had to be some kind of record. 

“The problem with the modern world,” she says, “is that you used to be able to go to Taco Bell for under ten bucks. Now, you’re lucky if you get out of there for less than thirty!”

She snorts in outrage and gives me this look like “can you believe it?!” It’s hard to tell how old she is because she has salt and pepper hair but no lines on her face. I nod back at her sagely, trying to look like I’m considering what she just said but I don’t know how to make my face do that so I take another swig of beer instead.

It’s about 2 o’clock on a Tuesday and I’m supposed to be at work. I haven’t been in two days, yesterday and today, and my boss so far has been satisfied with my food poisoning excuse. No one has probably noticed my absence outside of my emails to my boss.  

The woman next to me motions to the bartender wordlessly and he pours another glass of merlot and slides it in front of her, taking the old empty one away. I take a moment to marvel at the silent dance, the graceful flow of intent and action, and body language. 

Jesus, I’m drunk. 

“I’ll tell you what’s really wrong with the modern world,” I say. I notice that I’m slurring and try to sit up straighter. “Fluorescent lights.”

She nods back at me. “Fuck fluorescent lights!”

“Traffic jams.”

“Verification codes!”

“Social media …”

I give her a look and she looks back at me with the same expression and now we’re in the bathroom together, jammed up against one another in a tiny stall. She’s unbuttoning my shirt, the same business casual uniform I’ve worn every business day of my adult life. I pretended to go to work this morning so my husband wouldn’t get suspicious. Of what, I’m not sure, it’s not like I’ve ever been unfaithful before. Maybe I don’t want him to know that I am unraveling. The woman puts her hands down my pants and I forget about my husband. 

We return to the bar about twenty minutes later, sated and sweaty. The bartender cocks an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. The two old men sitting at a table in the corner, the only other people in the bar, don’t seem to notice or care. That’s how I like it. I like moving through the world making as little impact as I can. Leave only memories, or some shit like that.

My throat is dry from all the muffled moaning so I chug the remainder of my beer in one gulp. It’s a bit warm by now, but I don’t mind. I’ve drunk worse before and will again. The woman goes back to her merlot and the bar goes back to silence.

I get a text from my husband, can you pick up some ice cream on your way home? love you. I stuff the guilt down and text him back. I will not tell him about the woman or about how I text my boss next, telling him I won’t be in for a third day in a row. I won’t tell him when I get fired or when the bank starts to threaten to repo the car or when I pick up a bottle of pills from the drug store and a bottle of vodka to wash them down.

He doesn’t need to be bothered with my problems.