Atheists Who Kneel and Pray Page 3

  “I can,” I said. “Sort of. But I have to get ketchup for that guy over there.” I motioned with my head and he turned to look.

  “Okay,” he said. “Hurry.”

  I did. I hurried. I went to the kitchen and retrieved a steel ramekin of ketchup from the fridge, I set it on the table, and I smiled—not at him, at David—who wanted to know why I made him feel the way I did. David waited at the bar behind me, and I felt him waiting. Why was I playing this game? I said I wasn’t going to anymore. When I got back, he looked at me expectantly.

  “What?” I asked him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Tell me,” he said. I sighed.

  “Look, I’ve never called myself this so don’t laugh,” I warned him. “But I’ve dated a lot of artists. Probably exclusively artists,” I admitted, somewhat embarrassed. “They seem to need me for a while…to spark something. I really don’t know. But I’ve been called a muse.” My face was hot, a fever of embarrassment. I didn’t know why I was telling him any of this, I would agonize over it later. “It’s simple for me and complex for them.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked me.

  I looked around the bar at my tables. No one needed me, so I continued. “They’re…different when I leave and I’m the same.”

  He considered that for a moment and then nodded.

  “I can see that. I really can. And I’m not just saying that because I’m drunk.” He lifted his glass in cheers and took a sip.

  “I need a muse.”

  I laughed.

  “I’m not kidding. I can’t write anymore. I feel stale. And then by chance, I was walking by and I saw you through the window.” He spun around on his stool and pointed to a spot on the sidewalk. “I was composing my speech, the one I was going to give Elizabeth. It was blah, blah, blah—I’m not the commitment sort of guy, and then I saw you and I wanted to marry you on the spot.”

  “You’re full of it,” I told him.

  David reached up and crossed his heart.

  “Pulled one splinter and everything changed. I started to write. I’m on the verge of something and I need your help.”

  “A coincidence,” I said.

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Be my muse.”

  “You’d have to fall in love with me. Have you ever been in love?”

  He almost answered. Almost. His mouth was poised around the words. But then a couple walked through the doors and sat down at the far end of the bar. I looked at him regretfully and walked away.

  “Go home,” I called back to him. “You’re drunk.”

  By the time I was done taking their order, David Lisey’s bar stool was empty. I smiled as I cleared what was left of his dinner dishes, stacking them on my arm. He’d left a scrap of paper under his plate, his number scribbled on it. For Yara, it said. My muse.

  I threw it away. No. Nope. Not happening, Lisey. Asshole haircut or not. Cut arms or not. Magical singing voice or not. The men I’d been with had been cloying in their need for me. They wanted and expected and it drained me until there was nothing to do but leave. It was entirely one-sided, but none of them ever thought that. That was the thing about artists, they didn’t often think of you. Their energy had a narrow focus, a spotlight on their art…their insecurities…the unfairness of the world. I’d tried dating a banker, an engineer, a botanist, but they’d been addicted to their careers in a different way, and I found them lacking the unbridled passion I was used to.

  He didn’t come back for two weeks. I thought I was in the clear. I’d come to Seattle to focus on myself, to embrace aloneness, and I had done just that. It was almost time to go home.

  “Yara.”

  His voice startled me. The beer I was pouring flowed over my hand, pooling in the drain. I glanced over my shoulder and there he was, a beanie on his head, scruffy face, soft eyes—staring, staring.

  “You again,” I said.

  He laughed. Placing a hand over his heart, he said, “I hope you say that to me every morning.”

  I hated that I smiled. That he could turn my jabs into something endearing.

  “What time do you get off?”

  “In ten minutes,” I said. “But I’m not coming to your show and we’re not getting a drink.”

  “Okay,” he sighed. “I’ll just have a drink here then.” He slid into his usual bar stool and folded his hands on the counter, all proper like. It looked like he was preparing for a meeting.

  “You’re so ridiculous,” I said.

  “In love,” he corrected with a grin.

  “Sure,” I shrugged. “It’s late afternoon so I’m not sure if I’m supposed to get you a beer or Jack and Coke.”

  “Beer. Yara…let’s talk.” He tapped his palm on the bar top like he’d just thought of the best idea.

  “Can’t. I’m working.”

  He looked around the bar. “It’s empty.” It was true—he’d come in that in-between time, the witching hour between lunch and dinner.

  “What do you want?”

  He straightened up, cleared his throat. I almost laughed, but I was too weary.

  “A muse.”

  “You want a new fuck buddy, not a muse.”

  A shit-eating grin spread across his pretty fucking face. Caught.

  “What about both?”

  I shook my head. “Doesn’t work that way.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it doesn’t.”

  “But what would you have to lose?”

  I set down the rum bottle I was holding and stood in front of him, hands on my hips.

  “Nothing. You’d lose. But, I’m not a cruel person, David. I don’t want to hurt people.”

  “You’re not going to hurt me, Yara.” He said my name in the same way I’d said his: annoyed…condescending. I frowned at him. He had no idea what he was doing. Testosterone, lack of caution—the bull charging of men.

  “So let me get this straight,” I said, looking around. “You want me to make you fall in love with me, and you’re giving me permission to leave and break your heart?”

  He nodded.

  “But you don’t think I’d actually leave, Lisey. You think you can change me, but that’s not how it works.”

  He shrugged. “Let’s see how it plays out. Just come to our show. See what you think. Maybe you can help me, maybe you can’t. I don’t know how you decide these things.”

  “I don’t,” I said. “My relationships with the men I’ve been with happened organically. I don’t go around putting ads on craigslist, for God’s sake. What you’re asking me to do is stage a relationship so you can feel inspired.”

  “I already feel something for you so it wouldn’t be staged.”

  “What about me?” I said, raising my eyebrows. “I’m just supposed to force feelings?”

  He laughed through his nose, his lips puckering into a know-it-all grin. “Yara, we have chemistry. You can try to deny it all you want, but man is it there. I can practically feel you undressing me every time I’m in here.”

  He wasn’t too far off base so I didn’t tell him to go fuck himself, but I did give him a dirty look before I went to hide in the kitchen.

  “Fuck you, David Lisey,” I said under my breath.

  I cursed as I stepped into the street from my building. It was cold as fuck. My Uber was waiting by the curb, the driver looking around anxiously. I matched the license plate on my phone to the white Prius and walked over. It was raining, the ground slick with patches of ice. It wasn’t usually this cold here; they said it was the coldest winter in twenty years. It was possibly my fault, Ann said. I was the Ice Queen.

  I stepped around the slick spots and pulled cold air into my lungs. I was annoyed with myself for doing this, but not enough to send me home. Once I’d set my mind to something I stuck with it. A determined loyalist even when it hurt my pride.

  “The Crocodile,” I told the driver, sliding into the backseat. He already knew because, hello, he
wasn’t a fucking cab driver, he was Uber and they knew shit. I just needed to say it out loud. You’re doing something outside of the norm, Yara. Chasing a boy. No. Meeting a boy who asked very nicely.

  “Oh, yeah?” the driver said. “Nice place.” He laughed, and I nodded.

  There was a shooting there just a few weeks ago. It got a little rough sometimes, but mostly it was a fun place. Going to a grungy venue to listen to live music wasn’t unusual for me. Going because some guy asked me to was.

  “Be safe,” he told me as we pulled up.

  I nodded solemnly. He didn’t really care…it was just something to say.

  I was wrapped in a worn leather jacket and I shivered as I left the warmth of the Prius. I walked toward the door, dodging a girl already vomiting on the sidewalk. It was only ten o’clock. Her friends waited against the building, frowning.

  “You’ll feel better after you yak,” one of them called out.

  “Atta girl,” another said.

  I wanted to tell them to put some food in her stomach and to never use the word yak again. She went too hard, too fast, but I walked on. It was none of my business. They’d learn eventually.

  Why are you here? I asked myself again. I didn’t even like the song he sang, especially when Michael Bolton covered it. It was because I liked David. He had that spark I looked for in people. And because he asked me to come. He took risks, flirted with volatile women, sang to them. He wasn’t just some guy—there was something more. Humans liked to investigate things, and that was what I was doing.

  Ann had been the one to tell me to go. And when I’d asked her to come with me she’d laughed and said, “No, nope. It would take more than the Crocodile to get me out of this apartment.”

  So I did my grungy shit alone, abandoned by my one and only friend who had shit taste in music anyway. Her idea of a good time was a Housewives of New Jersey marathon in her flannel pajamas.

  I showed the bouncer my ID and stepped inside. Everyone knew that a good bar, a well-loved bar, smelled like despair. But, The Crocodile was a different kind of bar. Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Cheap Trick, and R.E.M. had all played there in their heyday. To me, The Crocodile smelled like a really good time, pure talent on the rise. I moved out of the main walkway and toward the bar where I ordered a shitty whiskey and soda. There was already a band on stage, the loud chords of an electric guitar ripped through the speakers. I sipped and sipped, and bobbed my head to the terrible music.

  When a drunk girl speared my foot with her stiletto, I limped to a spot near the wall. Drunken women in heels were dangerous weapons of foot destruction. This was life, stinking of smoke, hangovers, occasional drugs, and reckless sex. I didn’t want it to always be this way, but this was the way it was right now.

  “Do you know which band is up next?” I asked the girl next to me. Her mascara was smudged and there was a sheen of sweat covering her face as she bounced up and down.

  “David Lisey’s band,” she said. “They’re awesome.”

  “What are they called?” I shouted over the music.

  She leaned close to me and yelled, “Lazarus Come Forth,” then pointed to a poster on the wall. I hadn’t noticed it before: David and two other guys all wearing black.

  I nodded knowingly. “Of course, yeah,” I said, though she didn’t hear me.

  I was flustered by the fact that she knew who he was. I’d mentally taken ownership of him. He was the guy who duct-taped a splinter out of my finger and sang me a song. He also had really long eyelashes. He was my guy and I didn’t like that she knew who he was. On the flip side, their band name made me roll my eyes. A bizarre Biblical reference about coming back from the dead. Who were these guys? They had the suburbs written all over them. Back from the dead my ass. I imagined they liked the sound of it; musicians were in love with being doomed. I renamed them The Suburbs and went to the bar for another drink. When I got back, someone had stolen my spot on the wall and I had to move closer to the stage. More’s the pity. I stayed there holding my cup, rattling the ice compulsively. A few moments later David walked on stage, followed by two other guys. He was wearing all black; nothing fancy—just a black long sleeve and tight, black jeans. Just like the posters. The Suburbs, I thought. His legs were long and I realized he was quite a bit taller than I remembered. Maybe 6’2” or 6’3”. I pictured his pink T-shirt and leather jacket, the clothes he wore in real life. He glanced around the audience like he was looking for someone. Me, I thought.

  I stared at his jacket so I wouldn’t have to look at his face. I moved closer, just enough so that he could see me.

  The girl with the smudged mascara jumped up and down waving her free hand in the air. She’d crawled up close like me. She was taking pictures of David, though she was moving too much to have any of them be clear. I shrugged and turned my attention back to the stage where David was messing around with his guitar.

  A ONE…TWO…THREE…

  They started with something fast. I strained to catch some of the lyrics, but the bass was turned up too loud. David’s smoky voice was drowned out. I was disappointed and also a little tipsy. Lightweight, I told myself, disgusted. I wanted to move closer to the stage, but I didn’t want him to think I was into him, even though I was.

  He was a little stiff, if I were to be honest. He’d flirted with ease, a professional, but on the stage, he was a carbon copy of himself. Unsure. I tilted my head as I watched him, half fascinated and half disappointed. I loved the arts, all of them. But there was a common denominator in all messy, good art: an uninhibited wildness. I’d seen the disease on some. It overtook their inhibitions. David Lisey was not uninhibited, but I didn’t think he knew that. He didn’t quite believe what he was singing. They played a slow song. It was about a girl who had and didn’t have at the same time. Husky voice, shirtsleeves pushed up to his elbows, David sang with both his hands clutching the mic stand and looked directly at me. It was the first time that night that I felt he was being honest.

  When their set ended David hopped down from the stage and walked over to where I was standing. I tried not to notice the way he walked—the center of gravity in his shoulders. They were squared back, graceful. The rest of him moved, but it was all governed by what the shoulders decided.

  “You came,” he said.

  “Clearly.”

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  I shook my head. I’d already had four. One more and I’d be taking him home. On second thought…

  “I should be heading out,” I said. “I have to open again tomorrow.” It was a lie.

  “Stay,” he said. It wasn’t so much a request as it was a command.

  I looked at his lips, his nose, his mouth—so nicely put together—and I shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Sure. Just for a few minutes.”

  What could it hurt?

  “I don’t want you to leave,” David said, even though I’d already agreed to stay. “I’m drawn to you. I want to be near you.”

  I was in the middle of an existential crisis and he was making me his person. How could he afford to be that honest? I was cheap. I fell for it because most of us just really want to be wanted.

  “Okay,” I said. “But, not a minute after.”

  “Hey,” he said. “You don’t scare me. We’re not the same. I recognize that. But you don’t scare me.”

  I didn’t stay for a few more minutes. I stayed. David walked me over to the bar and ordered me a Hendrick’s and tonic, which I took gratefully. The cheap whiskey had left a stale taste in my mouth. Top shelf liquor for the band! Gin sort of made me crazy, but crazy was better than boring, and I was feeling wild around the edges.

  I stayed to watch the last half of the show, still buzzing from my interaction with David. There had been a moment when I thought about refusing, pulling my arm out of his grip and marching straight for the door in an act of female defiance. But then we caught eyes and neither of us looked away, we just stood there and stared at each other until someone said—“Hey David,
you’re up, dude.” He’d checked over me once more like he wasn’t sure if I’d be here when he came back and disappeared into the crowd. I was rendered non-thinking, a teenage boy. I wanted to know what he looked like out of his clothes, how much tongue he used when he kissed. The parts of me that he touched felt bruised, tender. Yet he had been so gentle.

  “Pretty good, huh?” the bartender said, jutting his chin toward the stage.

  I shrugged. His forearms were as thick as my thighs and his eyes said he hadn’t given a fuck for about ten years. Me too, buddy, me too. I considered the small hoop earring in his saggy left earlobe and sighed.

  “They’re okay,” I said. “They need more heart.”

  But, he hadn’t heard me, he’d moved off to someone else, probably to repeat the same line. Just a cheap trick bartender, I thought. I turned back to the band. The second half of the show was decidedly better. Or maybe I was more drunk. I wished I weren’t like this, ripping everything apart. Looking for the flaws. In any case, when it was over, David found me edging toward the door. I wondered if he rushed down from the stage knowing I’d try to slip away. He was wearing his leather jacket over his black ensemble now. He took my hand and I let him lead me out of The Crocodile, and when we stepped into the wet night, the air burned through my lungs.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  He lifted his hand to say goodbye to someone over my shoulder.

  “Does it matter?”

  No, I suppose it didn’t. Unless that was the gin talking. If he turned out to be a creep I had a switchblade in my bag.

  “If you’re going to murder me, don’t fuck with my face,” I said. “I want an open coffin at my funeral.”

  “No deal,” he said. “I want your dimples as my trophy.”

  I laughed, and he looked at me warmly and said, “There they are.”

  We headed north, navigating the puddles, him slightly in the lead. A group of girls stopped us and asked for a picture with David. Their boyfriends stood off to the side looking indifferent.

  I didn’t tell him no when he held his car door open for me, and I realized it was twice in one night that I’d been unable to say it. An alarm went off in my head, but I silenced it. Hush, cynicism. As I climbed into the front seat of his beat-up Honda Accord I told myself that I was due some yeses. I was due. And maybe this would be different, this thing with David and me.