Just one more night. That’s all he needed. He’d head down to a bar, have a few drinks, something to eat, then find a liquor store and buy a bottle for the night. And that would be it. Never again. Just one more night.
All the rest of it, work, whatever, he’d think about that tomorrow. So, he walked off the busy downtown avenue and onto a side street between two buildings, cracked pavement, old brick, and wonderfully out of the way. He made another left turn and then a right; the neighborhood becoming more suspect with every step. But he knew exactly where he was going. It was a bar he hadn’t been to in a few years. But one he’d always liked. It wasn’t so busy he wouldn’t be able to enjoy his dinner and a few drinks in peace, but not so empty that he’d be the sole attention of the place’s servers. Goldilocks in practiced self-destruction. Except it wasn’t self-destruction, it was just one more night.
He entered the place, Club Sidecar, and became awash in red neon and vague 90s boom bap. He took a seat near the back, as isolated as he could be. The place was just as he remembered it. Half the lights weren’t even working, giving the place an even darker look than it would have had otherwise, and the black leather of the booth he sat in was torn in spots, white stuffing peeking out. It was perfect.
A menu lay haphazardly across the wooden table, as if forgotten there rather than set up for the next customer. He slid it over to himself and managed to turn the first page before he saw a waitress walking over to him. Black jeans, black tank top, black hair. Fuck, he knew her. Chelsea something. They had met at a birthday party belonging to a mutual friend, a friend he no longer spoke to.
He looked down at himself, white button-up unironed, tie loosened, and he could only imagine the way his face looked. Red and peely from days of drinking. He wasn’t supposed to see anyone he knew.
She walked up to his table and smiled twice. The first smile came from her face; pretty, pale, red lips. The second came from a Cheshire smile tattooed above the curve of her breasts, lips as red as the ones on her face.
“It’s Dion, right?” she beamed. It was all too much. One smile from a pretty girl was sweet, two was excessive.
“Yeah, it is. Chelsea?” he said, trying to act casual, trying to act as if his face wasn’t one big irritation, an addict’s sunburn; the skin around his nose stinging red with every syllable he spoke.
“Yup,” she smiled down at him. “I think the last time I saw you was at Ben’s birthday.”
“That sounds right,” he said as politely as he could. He wanted her to leave. He wasn’t a self-conscious person by nature, but today was just not his day. He felt like shit, he looked like shit, and the day he was having was even more shit than the way he looked. But he couldn’t think about that right now. He just wanted her to leave, take his order and leave. He wanted her to stop looking at him. He just wanted a fucking drink. “You work here now?”
“Yeah! It’s only been a few weeks. It’s nice though. Want something to drink, something to eat?” Relief.
“Both actually,” he said as he looked down and pretended to look through the menu. It only took a second before his hands started to shake, and the menu with it, the kind of shaking that only comes from the kind of hangovers that only come from too many days of drinking. He put the menu down before she noticed. “I think I’ll start with a drink though,” he smiled.
“Cool. What’ll you have?”
“Just a gin and tonic, please.”
“Coming right up! I’ll give you a sec to look through the menu,” she smiled twice, her eyes lingering on him before turning away and walking towards the bar.
He nervously ran a hand through his hair. He forgot how pretty she was. Of all the days to have run into her again. He could feel his self-consciousness tugging at him. He felt embarrassed, as if all his sadness and his vices and his failures were plain on his face and he was forcing this friend of a friend to look and speak to him, this crumbling person; Goldilocks caught by three bears.
Today was meant to be for unwinding and this was making him feel worse. He stood up and headed to the washroom to splash some water on his face. He opened the door and walked in, the smell of stale urine, perfected, refined, and aged. He looked at himself in one of the mirrors. His face was indeed red and peely. But it wasn’t as bad as he thought. And in the dark of the bar, he doubted she’d even noticed. He turned on the faucet and started splashing the cold water on his face, scrubbing lightly as he did so, wanting to at least, if anything, get rid of the dead flakes of skin that were peeling off the redness. When he looked at himself again in the mirror, his face was sore and even more red from the scrubbing, but at least he looked clean.
He walked out of the washroom and headed towards his table. Chelsea was just leaving, his drink already on top of a coaster in front of where he was sitting. She turned and playfully walked backwards towards the bar. “Left your drink on the table. I’ll be right back for your food order,” she smiled.
“Thanks,” he beamed at her, confidence returning to his voice. He met her eyes for just a second before she turned around. He had completely forgotten about Ben’s birthday. They were both incredibly drunk that night, the night that they had met, but they had spent the majority of it together, speaking to one another.
He sat down and with a shaking hand lifted the glass to his lips and took a big sip. He smiled. Clean face, good drink, he felt like a human again.
He took another sip before he started going through the menu. He wanted something he could eat fast, he didn’t want to linger here too long, but he also wanted something special. It was just that kind of day.
It took him entirely too long to decide what he wanted. He could barely make it half a page before his mind wandered to the events of his day and what they meant. Every time his thoughts would drift, he’d tell himself he’d save the worrying for tomorrow, and then he’d return to the menu and barely make it another page before the pang of anxiety would creep its way back into his gut. The cycle continued until he finally turned the right page and stopped. Empanadas.
They served empanadas. He hadn’t had those in years. He used to love ordering them from an Argentine restaurant too far out of his way, but worth it when he was in a particular mood. That was it. That’s what he wanted. He put the menu down.
“Ready to order?” Dion jumped at Chelsea’s words. He hadn’t even seen her walk up. “Oh, sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you,” she laughed, actually looking embarrassed.
“Were you standing there the whole time?” He beamed up at her, gently teasing, as he picked up his drink for a sip, but putting it down as quickly and lithely as he could when he realized that his hand still shook. She laughed and shook her head.
“No, I swear! Sorry, it’s really dead in here. I was kinda ready,” she said, still laughing as she signalled with her hand to the empty bar.
“No, don’t apologize. You came in ready to go and I’m just sitting here holding us back,” he teased again, smiling up at her.
She squinted her eyes and nodded in mock conspiratorial seriousness, “You didn’t have to say so, but thanks, yeah, I’m ridiculously good at this job. And I don’t want to be rude, but can you like ready it up any faster?”
Dion laughed out loud at that, the first real laugh he’d had in a long time, and when she smiled back at him, a genuinely warm smile from both her lips, he thought she looked really pretty.
“So ready to order? I can give you more time.”
“No, I’m good. Yeah, I think I’ll have an order of empanadas. Chorizo.”
“Oh, good choice, they’re really good here.”
“Cool. Can’t wait,” Dion smiled, forgetting all his earlier self-consciousness.
“Cool,” she replied. Only the slightest of moments passed before she realized she was lingering. She let out a little laugh as she found herself again and shot out, “Coming right up!” But as she began to turn and walk away, Dion could not help but notice a tinge of sadness on the smile across her chest, a shade of melancholy in those red lips. It was a smile that didn’t match the bright one across her face, nor the lilt in her playful voice. But maybe he was just projecting.
He settled down in his seat and sipped more of his drink, letting the red neon and the steady percussion of boom bap from the bar’s speakers wash over him. He felt calm. He’d drink some more, and when he’d finish eating, he’d head down to the liquor store and buy a bottle for the night. Maybe watch a movie before he passed out. And tomorrow he’d feel strong enough to pick up the pieces of his life.
A few songs went past before he finished his drink. He looked over to Chelsea at the bar and made eye contact. He held the empty glass in his hand and was about to say something before she cut in.
“Another?”
“Yes, thanks,” he replied.
Only a moment went by before she came back to his table with another gin and tonic. She picked up the empty glass and turned to leave.
“So, you still talk to Ben?” Dion asked, surprising himself.
Chelsea scrunched up her face in disgust and shook her head. “Oh, no. Not at all.”
“Wow. That bad, huh?”
She burst out laughing. “No, sorry. I have no idea why I said it like that. We just lost touch. You?”
“No, me neither. I actually never really liked him though.”
“Oh, I totally get that. Was it the constant patting on the back?”
“No, that was actually my favorite part about Ben,” he joked, and grinned when Chelsea laughed. He liked it when she laughed. But this time he definitely noticed her breast lips moving, laughing along with her face ones. Were tattoos meant to do that? He wasn’t sure, and felt it might be impolite to ask, so he let it go.
“Chelsea!” A voice called from the kitchen.
She quickly looked around and then back at Dion. “Gotta go!”
“Yeah, for sure.” Dion watched her leave and took a big draught of his drink. He was already feeling the vaguest hint of a buzz and was pleased when he realized his hand had stopped shaking. He was feeling better. He was almost done with his second drink when she came over with the plate of empanadas, a good thing too, he was starting to get really hungry.
“Enjoy!” she exclaimed, with a look of pride as if she herself had been the one to make them.
But when Dion looked down at his plate, his face dropped. Instead of golden-brown little pastries, instead of delicate half-moon dumplings of chorizo and cheese, instead of baked crescents in flaked soft-crusts, were two thick and slimy lobes of flesh, pink and raw and gently pulsating beneath a membranous layer of skin; the overstuffed organs leaking coagulated magenta, melting and falciforming around the plate.
Instead of a plate of empanadas, Dion looked down at a pair of pink and shiny livers.
He stared down at the little slabs of meat, forcing back his revulsion. Was this some joke? Did empanadas mean something different at this bar? Was this some other, new way of making them? None of that made any sense. The baked servings of tissue on his plate looked alive, not some undercooked or raw delicacy, but an alien organism prepared for his enjoyment. He picked up his fork and knife and cut into it, more coagulated pinkness gushing from the cut, and while the piece of meat impaled on his fork had stopped its writhing, the main lobe of flesh continued on with its rhythmic pulse.
He looked up from his dinner and saw Chelsea standing alone at the bar.
“Hey Chelsea, do you guys, um, cook these differently here?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean are these made differently than regular empanadas?”
“Nope, not all. The place makes them pretty standard. Do you like them?” she smiled.
“I just, um, wonder if they’re meant to taste like this?” he said, trying to act as casual as he could.
“Oh, no, do they taste bad?”
“Not at all. I’m just curious.” He paused. “Do you want to try a bite?”
Chelsea looked taken aback by that. She looked around the bar. The place was still empty, and save for the cook in the back she was the only one working. When she realized there was no one to see her, and no way to get in trouble, she smiled at him and nodded, before sauntering over with her own fork and knife in hand. She looked down at the plate, admiring the food.
“May I?” she asked.
“Please,” Dion responded, suppressing a panic. She hadn’t noticed anything wrong in the pink lobes of meat that lay flat across his plate.
She knifed off a slice from the opposite side he had taken his from, and when she lifted her fork up to eat, it was to her breast lips that she took it to. Dion stared, frozen in place, as her chest heaved, up and down, while the red Cheshire mouth across her breasts chewed the pinkish meat.
“Mm, yeah that’s good.” She swallowed. “Do you not like it? You can tell me. I can ask to have it remade.”
“No, no, please don’t. I just wanted to make sure.” Dion did his best to smile.
“Ok, cool. Enjoy!” And she headed back to the bar.
Dion picked his knife up once again, the pink membranous chunk dripping melting magenta. He put it into his mouth and chewed.
Cheap.
Cheap and haggard like his own fucking liver.
Not like the Argentine place he used to go to. Cheap, but exactly what he wanted after his awful day.
When every bite of the pink slabs of flesh had been eaten, Dion pushed his plate away and washed down the meal with a big pull from his gin and tonic. Chelsea walked over to collect the plate.
“Good?” she asked, collecting it. Dion nodded. He meant to say more to her, he was enjoying her company. But now that the food had been eaten, and the drinks had been had, that familiar pang of anxiety pressed upon his heart and a shadow passed over his mood. He picked his drink up and finished the glass.
“This is probably none of my business, but are you ok?” Chelsea asked.
“I’m sorry?” He looked up, genuinely confused; he had been so lost in his thoughts.
“I know the last time I saw you was at a party, but you seemed different then. I don’t know. Ever since you walked in, you just seemed really…sad.” Another look of embarrassment crossed her face. “It’s none of my business though.” She began to turn away. But Dion stopped her.
“No, you’re right. I kind of had an awful day today.” He paused, then sighed. “I lost my job.”
“Oh?” she asked, concern across her face.
“Well, I quit my job.”
“Oh!” she said, enthusiasm in her voice.
“Well, I quit my job because I was going to be fired.”
“Oh,” she nodded, understanding sinking in. She let out a little laugh. “Sounds like a bit of a rollercoaster.”
He breathed out through his nose by way of a laugh, a sad smile across his face. He finished his drink.
“You know what? You sound like you need another drink. Let me get you a drink. On me.” She smiled twice at him so prettily Dion’s heart hurt.
“Ok. Yeah.” He grinned.
She turned and headed towards the bar before quickly turning back around.
“Well, actually no, not on me. I’m kind of really new here. I don’t want to get in trouble.”
“Oh, for sure. Yeah, no, on me, on me.”
She met his eyes, kind and playful. “Perfect. I’ll get you drink. On you.”
“I appreciate it. Thanks.” He laughed.
She left in the direction of the bar but instead of grabbing drinks went through a door leading towards a back room. It was a little while before she returned and when she did, she came back sniffing. He knew what from. He remembered that much about her from the party where they’d met. She slid into the booth where Dion sat and seated herself across from him. She held a little shot of vodka in her hand as she slid over a gin and tonic in his direction.
“On me,” she grinned. And rather than downing the shot in one go, she sipped at it delicately from her breast lips.
“Thank you,” he said. And really meant it.
“You know, people lose jobs all the time. Just–next week start applying. You’ll be fine.”
“No, I know,” he said, drinking his drink, finding her presence soothing.
“I mean. No job is the be all, end all. Jobs come and go. Look at me. I hate this job.”
“But you’re so good at it!” he teased.
“I know! That’s the ironic thing. But nope, I hate it. Have you looked at this place? The people who come here are awful.”
“Except for me, right?” He grinned.
“Are you kidding me? You’ve been top three worst customers this week,” she said, and they both laughed. “You’ll be fine.”
“Thanks, Chelsea,” he said. Their eyes met. He wanted to say something to her. A compliment. Anything. And then Chelsea sniffed again and he knew what from. Dion looked at her for a long second, wondering if he would say it. And then he did.
“Got any for me?”
Chelsea’s eyes went wide and a flash of emotions flitted across her face in quick succession. Shock, denial, embarrassment, sadness, and then her face settled as she met his eyes. Chelsea looked around the bar and saw that nobody else was there. Nobody else had been there and chances were nobody else would be there either. She got up, a shy smile on her face, and nodded her head towards the washroom. Dion got up and followed.
And in front of the sink, no need to go into a stall, nobody was walking in, Chelsea pulled out a little baggie and took a bump with what Dion imagined to be her house key and wordlessly Dion followed suit, reacting to her movements in an act that felt as intimate as sex but with all the post-sex shame felt pre post and in the moment.
Chelsea looked up at Dion, rubbing coke into the gums of her breast lips; her eyes big and sad, that look of embarrassment returned.
“I don’t want you to think that I’m always doing this at work or something. I know the last time you saw me was at that party and I was doing a lot. And now you see me again, at work, and I’m doing this in the back. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of me. I’m actually quitting tomorrow,” she said. And then frowned, knowing what that last part sounded like.
Dion met her gaze.
Broken eyes meeting broken eyes.
“Me too. Um, the drinking.”
She nodded.
“I want…more than this,” he continued.
Broken eyes meeting broken eyes.
“Me too.”
He nodded.
Chelsea wiped away a tear with the back of her hand and then reached down to the hem of her black tank top and began slowly pulling it up. Dion flinched when the hem moved past her belly button, he had no idea what she was doing, Chelsea slowly pulling up her top until it scrunched up right below her breasts, turning all the while so that her right side was facing him. Running down the length of Chelsea’s abdomen was a tattoo of a delicate looking zipper, zipped up all the way to the top. And out of instinct, Dion went to touch it but stopped himself before he did, only to then catch a glimpse of Chelsea’s face, so inviting and so scared; words passing silently between them, Dion knew exactly what he had to do, what was being offered, and so he got down on his knees, onto the dirty washroom floor, and slowly, furtively, reached up to the tattoo zipper slider and gently pulled it down the zipper’s length in an act as intimate as sex. And when the slider reached the bottom stop, the zipper teeth unfurled revealing all that Chelsea had to give. Red and wet and glistening but spilling not a drop of blood.
Chelsea met his eyes, her mouth parted in flustered concupiscence before Dion looked back at her gaping side and pushed his hand through the zipper’s teeth, into warm and shining wetness, pushing fingers between her ribcage, her bones parting to the side as if made from rubber, and all the while his hand searching, feeling, until he felt and held her liver in his hand. And in one gentle tug he pulled the little organ from out her body; magenta dripping onto the washroom floor.
He looked at the little slab of meat. For a second not knowing what to do. He should not be here with her. He should be at home. He wasn’t in the right state for this. Not in the right state for her. He had lost his job today. And how could he tell her how much he’d loved it? How much it’d meant to him. Or how his life was a cycle of failures and disappointments where no one was to blame but him.
And then he felt her hands run through his hair, and whatever reluctance he had felt drained out of him. He could not fight that familiar feeling, that familiar drive that was his need itself.
Dion bit into Chelsea’s liver, pink empanada between his teeth; pink dripping down his mouth.
And Chelsea gasped, her hand still running through his hair as she leaned down, pushing her breasts against the crook in Dion’s neck; so soft and so warm, her breast lips pressed against him as he ate, gentle kiss. And then breast lips parted and he felt teeth, their sharpness against his skin, a press of pressure and then a stab of pain as the mouth on Chelsea’s chest bit down hard on the soft spot where neck met shoulder; blood seeping out of his tearing skin as teeth ripped and worried at his flesh, his blood draining out of him and pooling between her cleavage.
They moaned in hunger as they consumed one another.
Dion knew he’d end up back at her apartment. And there’d be more coke and gin and sex.
But then, that was it.
Just one more night.
-- Xavier Garcia is a writer/editor from Toronto, Canada. His short fiction work has appeared in Fugitives & Futurists, Cold Signal, Planet Bizarro, APOCALYPSE CONFIDENTIAL, as well as in multiple anthologies published by Black Hare Press. You can find him walking the nightmare corpse-city of R'lyeh.