For Matt

His name was Matt.

He was a bartender,

a friend,

a husband.

New people would walk into the bar, come up to Matt, order a drink, and Matt would know exactly what to say to make them feel like they were talking to that old friend they’ve been meaning to call up. He had this ability to make you feel appreciated and welcome and seen. He made the people around him feel important, but to him, the most important person in the whole wide universe was his wife.

Matt loved her with a ferocity and fullness that filled his being. They were never officially married- that was far too traditional for them. They had their ring fingers tattooed and just threw a big party instead. She made him endlessly happy and he carried that happiness with him everywhere he went.

I can’t remember a time I ever saw him sad or angry or hateful. He worked every Tuesday night until at least 2am and every Tuesday night as I was leaving, he would point at me, smile, and make a texting motion with his hands. That meant to text him when I got home so he knew I was safe. And he meant it. He would give me hell the next day if I ever forgot.

The last time I talked to him, I was almost to the point to tears from the exhaustion and frustration of dividing the tips from the whole day. The math wasn’t adding up right and people were coming up short. He came over to me and told me it was all going to be okay in that calming voice he used so well. I can’t remember if I believed him.

That was the last time I talked to him.

The next time I saw him, it was his picture posted all over Facebook. The shock lasted for the first hour. The tears came only after my boyfriend came home and I was forced to say it out loud.

No one ever called to tell me. If it weren’t for Facebook, I might not have known for months. I want to delete my Facebook, but how else will I know the next time?

I didn’t know him that long. We only worked together for six months or so. But he was one of those people who inserted himself in your life and very quickly you knew he was going to be a part of your story. I found out later that he referred to me as his “little sister” when I wasn’t around. Turns out he felt the same way about me.

His name was Matt.

He was happy and kind and beautiful.

His name was Matt.

He fell asleep every night next to the woman he loved.

His name was Matt.

He woke up every morning next to the woman he loved. Until one day he didn’t.

His name was Matt. He was 33.

 

-Marie Pruitt