“Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy will be nada in nada as it is in nada. Give us this nada our daily nada and nada us our nada as we nada our nada and nada us into nada but deliver us from nada; pues nada…”

Ernest Hemingway

She pulled opened the hefty glass doors just like she did ten, twenty, thirty-six times before. The sharp stench of tequila soaked floors soothed her nose. The dim glow from the Edison bulbs which lined the walls resembled a halo. 

A heavenly locale.

The low murmur of slurred voices acted as spoken word salve to her soul. Her body found itself seated along the mahogany ledge in a deserted corner. The height of counter, almost to her chest, always intrigued her. Oftentimes she would press her torso against the wood, let her heartbeat sink into it, into the clatter of bottles and glasses, to become one with the structure. 

The divine trinity. The magnificent spirit(s).

“The usual?” A familiar husky voice floated past her ears. The masterful creator.

“You know it,” her avid mouth replied. 

A few minutes later her holy water, a gin and tonic, quenched an anxious thirst. 

She adamantly refused the commanding desire to press ABC-0-GHI-MNO on her phone

to check on her discussions. Her left thumb twitched as she gripped the highball. The condensation from the glass could easily be lubrication for the conversation she so desperately wanted on this Great Friday.

Pater, dimitte illis, non enim sciunt quid faciunt.

She patted the damp counter in a quick rhythm. 

Tap-taptap-tap. 

Those tending brews knew the translation exactly.

I’m          rea-dy             for           more:

The boozer’s Morse Code.

As the blood of juniper coated her cheeks and flowed down her throat, her stomach begged for sustenance.

She flagged down a stout bearded ginger man and croaked, “Lamb burger, medium, no fries.” She added, “Make the next one a double.” 

Her jittery fingers began to draw shapes along the dewey cup. The shapes shifted to letters as her subconscious stenciled 

L

O

She traced the less-than signand yawning mouth over and over. She had just started on the left branch of the twenty-second letter when her meal abruptly landed in front of her. The petite waiter scurried off before she could mumble thanks. 

Her teeth tore the meat apart; she had removed the top bun to expose and explore the protein easier. Once finished she let out a heavy, full exhale. Her disinterested gaze looked down at the lonely piece of bread that remained.

Her lanky fingers painted the napkin brown-red as she cleaned the filth off.

+ + +

She reached for her libation. A scrawny, pale woman, along with the woolly man, had alternated swapping emptied drinks for full ones five times already. Streams of old and young, indifferent and excited, ebbed and flowed around her while she kept her eyes nailed to the television screen. America’s favorite bat-and-ball game never really caught her interest before, but the bout between the Royals and Padres kept her mind from obsessing over the response she craved.

As the game slithered into the seventh inning the music that spilled out of sparse speakers amplified. The youthful British voice declared:

Anticipation has the habit to set   you   up 

for disappointment in evening entertainment. 1

She lightly chuckled. Just then her bladder violently knocked on her stomach and brain.

Her legs sighed in relief as she stood. She let her spine and neck pop as she realigned her bones. Her right hand grabbed the last piece of bread and she made her way towards the steep stairs. She tossed the rocklike dough on her tongue. 

Left, right, left right: her legs descended the steps. She reached the water closet door. Her left rib felt the delicate buzzbuzz from her pocketed phone. 

Her heart rate hastened. Her limbs weakened.

She slowly retrieved her device. The intense light beams singed her pupils. She recited the verse out loud, quietly. When her lips reached the last syllable, the semi-soggy piece of bread lodged itself in the opening of her larynx. 

She gagged and gasped for air in the almost pitch black, completely desolate basement.

As she struggled to expand her lungs, her body, both limp and stiff, slid to the sticky floor. With her consciousness gradually slipping she laid supine searching for any comfort on the gluey ground. 

Her murky vision barely deciphered the scalloped pattern on the metal ceiling. 

Reminiscing on the sweet sentences she read not two minutes prior caused the corners of her mouth to slowly ascend. 

She willingly surrendered her being to fate. 

Her coughs became weaker, her skin calmly melted into the earth.

Gentle guitar riffs from the upstairs song wafted down to the smiling, deteriorating woman.

As she straddled the afterlife her ears hardly discerned an English voice affirm:

Where do we go? Nobody knows.2

1 “The View From the Afternoon,” Arctic Monkeys (2006)

2  “God Put a Smile upon Your Face,” Coldplay (2002)