JUVEN
Echoes
by Antara Gupta
You sit down and wait for him. You choose the table in a dark corner, hidden under the shadow of the spotlight illuminating the jukebox. The harsh metal edge of the chair digs into your thighs as you lean forward and rest your arms against the small wooden table before you. You can feel the stickiness of the table against your elbows through the wool of your sweater, but you don't care how many whiskeys or vodka sodas have been spilt here. You're too busy looking at the door. The low ceiling drops dim lights at regular intervals that can never fully illuminate the long room no matter how hard they try. Despite your best efforts at nonchalance, your eyes keep snapping to the mirror at the end of the entrance hall, hoping to catch an early glimpse of him as he comes through the door. The view from the shadows isn’t the best. You chastise yourself for choosing the table in the dark pit of the bar.
You've become strangely good at drowning out the noise that seems to be a permanent resident at the bar. The hundreds of hours you have spent in this place have all been an overload of sound. Today is no exception. The boisterous chatter of patrons new and old bounces off the wood panelled walls, mixing with the Stevie Wonder song blaring from the jukebox with no regard for rhythm. The two waitresses are fluttering around the room, each trying to serve five tables at once. The bartender picks up some of the slack and yells an order towards the kitchen over the rattling of ice as he shakes a cocktail into existence. The dull noise of the traffic outside pulsates and underscores the gentle chaos, a heartbeat you can all but ignore. You hear these things but you don't listen. They fade into the background. Your singular focus rests on the mirror. Your heartbeat speeds up every time you see the door swing open and disappointment settles deep into your chest when it's anyone but him. Your leg bounces up and down restlessly, your hands fidget and peel black nail polish off your left thumb.
You don’t know what to expect of him, maybe that is what’s making you nervous. It's been years after all. You wander in memories of back alley bookstores and dimly lit restaurants. You lose focus. You aren’t at the table anymore. A waitress crashes into a patron near the overcrowded bar. A drunk rendition of the Happy Birthday song starts up from a far corner. There’s a roar of laughter from the booth directly underneath the black and white photograph of a street market. The jukebox starts playing Pink Floyd as Stevie Wonder’s voice fades gently out. You are still staring at the mirror but you’re not really looking.
You are in his bathroom. The thin strap of your cami slips off one shoulder and you flex your toes against the cold tile floor. You’re glancing at him in the mirror, trying not to giggle at the way his tired eyes flutter shut against the harsh light from the flickering bulb as you brush your teeth side by side. You make a funny pair; his oversized t-shirt with holes around the neck and stains down the front, and your hair tumbling down your face from the bun ruined by the pillow.
Then you move. You’re on your couch wrapped in your favourite blanket and him. You’re three hours into a Drag race binge session together while a storm rages outside, assaulting your windows. Warmth seeps into your fingers from where you have them wrapped around your favourite mug brimming with peppermint tea. He shifts behind you and wraps a hand around your shoulders. You settle more firmly into the cradle of his body.
You are at the bar with your friends, raising your glasses in a toast to his promotion. You can see the sparkle in his eyes and the drunk smile on his face on your way back to the apartment. He holds your hand, wraps his arm around your waist, drops kisses wherever he can reach as you walk the three blocks. He kisses you senseless against the door when you make it back to the apartment.
You are sitting at your favourite spot against the window at your favourite coffee shop. You are typing furiously away at your computer, trying to get some last minute work done before leaving with him for the weekend. He is sitting across the table reading. Neither of you has said anything for a while now, settled in familiar silence. You catch each other looking every once in a while and share shy smiles and low giggles. You both reach for your drinks together.
You’re at the airport. You’ve been hugging him for too long now. His arms are as tight around you now as they were five minutes ago. Your cheek is pressed against his chest. You can hear his heartbeat and feel the shaky breaths he is taking to keep from breaking down completely. You keep an eye on his suitcase standing next to you. If you’re going to keep him for so long the least you can do is make sure he doesn’t get robbed before he even gets on the plane. A woman announces a gate change. Her voice reverberates through the airport as you tighten your arms around him and press closer.
There’s a crash. Someone dropped a dish. You’re looking at the mirror again. The door inches open and you sit up in anticipation. There's a rush of air. The sound is almost silenced by the ruckus inside but you hear it anyway. You can feel your heart trying to break through your ribs.
Your vision tunnels as you see a mop of dark brown curls peeking out from under a tightly wrapped green scarf. You can't see his face yet but you know it's him under the bulky coat. The door closes and he moves. You can't see him in the mirror anymore so you move your eyes to the hall. You watch his figure fill the entryway as he removes his scarf and coat, running a hand through his hair to get the stray snowflakes out.
You get lost in that motion. You remember the last time you watched him make the nervous gesture; he was on your computer screen. The picture wasn’t great and his voice kept breaking but you knew what he was trying to say. You were trying to say the same thing. He left for a while, someone called him to the kitchen. He left you staring at the blue covers on his bed behind his wooden desk chair. He hated chairs that swivel. You could see hints of the city outside his window. You think you saw a plant on the ledge but you couldn’t be sure. There was a stack of books on his nightstand underneath the ornate lamp you had helped him pick out at a flea market. You could hear low voices barely making their way through the speakers. He must have left the door open, or the walls may be too thin. You forced yourself to look away from the screen and moved your eyes to your phone instead. Your conversation with him was open. The last text was him asking if you can FaceTime anytime soon. The ones before that were from a month ago. You knew what he was going to say because you were going to say the same thing. So you sent him a text saying it was over and that you loved him and logged off FaceTime before he came back. You couldn’t bear to look at him any longer. You didn’t get out of bed for the next two days.
You still can’t. He hasn’t seen you yet. You know this because despite the fact that every atom in your body hurts at the sight of him, you can’t look away. He’s trying to find you at the crowded bar. You don’t blame him, that was where you always used to sit. You probably should have told him you got a table. His eyes move on, searching the room. You’re too far away to see them, but you remember the exact shade of green they are. You know he won’t notice you because you used to hate sitting near the jukebox. You‘re right. His eyes skip over you. He seems confused, you see his lips move and you can almost hear him cursing under his breath. Or maybe that’s an echo you can’t shake off.
You get up slowly, the chair scrapes backwards loudly but the sound is lost in the cacophony of the room. You’re still looking at him, he’s still looking for you. You turn, slowly tearing your eyes away from him. You pick your coat off the back of the chair and walk towards the back door. You push it open and look over your shoulder one last time.
His brows are drawn together and he’s pulling out his phone, probably to text you. The crowd at the bar has thinned a bit and someone has taken over your table already. Someone is setting up a sound system in the corner, it’s probably open mic night. There’s a young girl standing at the jukebox, looking through the collection. Pink Floyd is still echoing off the walls but the song is coming to an end. You step into the chill of the alleyway and let the door close behind you, taking the noise with it. Snowflakes fall gently and dust your hair and shoulders. You walk back to your car in the silence.
You've become strangely good at drowning out the noise that seems to be a permanent resident at the bar. The hundreds of hours you have spent in this place have all been an overload of sound. Today is no exception. The boisterous chatter of patrons new and old bounces off the wood panelled walls, mixing with the Stevie Wonder song blaring from the jukebox with no regard for rhythm. The two waitresses are fluttering around the room, each trying to serve five tables at once. The bartender picks up some of the slack and yells an order towards the kitchen over the rattling of ice as he shakes a cocktail into existence. The dull noise of the traffic outside pulsates and underscores the gentle chaos, a heartbeat you can all but ignore. You hear these things but you don't listen. They fade into the background. Your singular focus rests on the mirror. Your heartbeat speeds up every time you see the door swing open and disappointment settles deep into your chest when it's anyone but him. Your leg bounces up and down restlessly, your hands fidget and peel black nail polish off your left thumb.
You don’t know what to expect of him, maybe that is what’s making you nervous. It's been years after all. You wander in memories of back alley bookstores and dimly lit restaurants. You lose focus. You aren’t at the table anymore. A waitress crashes into a patron near the overcrowded bar. A drunk rendition of the Happy Birthday song starts up from a far corner. There’s a roar of laughter from the booth directly underneath the black and white photograph of a street market. The jukebox starts playing Pink Floyd as Stevie Wonder’s voice fades gently out. You are still staring at the mirror but you’re not really looking.
You are in his bathroom. The thin strap of your cami slips off one shoulder and you flex your toes against the cold tile floor. You’re glancing at him in the mirror, trying not to giggle at the way his tired eyes flutter shut against the harsh light from the flickering bulb as you brush your teeth side by side. You make a funny pair; his oversized t-shirt with holes around the neck and stains down the front, and your hair tumbling down your face from the bun ruined by the pillow.
Then you move. You’re on your couch wrapped in your favourite blanket and him. You’re three hours into a Drag race binge session together while a storm rages outside, assaulting your windows. Warmth seeps into your fingers from where you have them wrapped around your favourite mug brimming with peppermint tea. He shifts behind you and wraps a hand around your shoulders. You settle more firmly into the cradle of his body.
You are at the bar with your friends, raising your glasses in a toast to his promotion. You can see the sparkle in his eyes and the drunk smile on his face on your way back to the apartment. He holds your hand, wraps his arm around your waist, drops kisses wherever he can reach as you walk the three blocks. He kisses you senseless against the door when you make it back to the apartment.
You are sitting at your favourite spot against the window at your favourite coffee shop. You are typing furiously away at your computer, trying to get some last minute work done before leaving with him for the weekend. He is sitting across the table reading. Neither of you has said anything for a while now, settled in familiar silence. You catch each other looking every once in a while and share shy smiles and low giggles. You both reach for your drinks together.
You’re at the airport. You’ve been hugging him for too long now. His arms are as tight around you now as they were five minutes ago. Your cheek is pressed against his chest. You can hear his heartbeat and feel the shaky breaths he is taking to keep from breaking down completely. You keep an eye on his suitcase standing next to you. If you’re going to keep him for so long the least you can do is make sure he doesn’t get robbed before he even gets on the plane. A woman announces a gate change. Her voice reverberates through the airport as you tighten your arms around him and press closer.
There’s a crash. Someone dropped a dish. You’re looking at the mirror again. The door inches open and you sit up in anticipation. There's a rush of air. The sound is almost silenced by the ruckus inside but you hear it anyway. You can feel your heart trying to break through your ribs.
Your vision tunnels as you see a mop of dark brown curls peeking out from under a tightly wrapped green scarf. You can't see his face yet but you know it's him under the bulky coat. The door closes and he moves. You can't see him in the mirror anymore so you move your eyes to the hall. You watch his figure fill the entryway as he removes his scarf and coat, running a hand through his hair to get the stray snowflakes out.
You get lost in that motion. You remember the last time you watched him make the nervous gesture; he was on your computer screen. The picture wasn’t great and his voice kept breaking but you knew what he was trying to say. You were trying to say the same thing. He left for a while, someone called him to the kitchen. He left you staring at the blue covers on his bed behind his wooden desk chair. He hated chairs that swivel. You could see hints of the city outside his window. You think you saw a plant on the ledge but you couldn’t be sure. There was a stack of books on his nightstand underneath the ornate lamp you had helped him pick out at a flea market. You could hear low voices barely making their way through the speakers. He must have left the door open, or the walls may be too thin. You forced yourself to look away from the screen and moved your eyes to your phone instead. Your conversation with him was open. The last text was him asking if you can FaceTime anytime soon. The ones before that were from a month ago. You knew what he was going to say because you were going to say the same thing. So you sent him a text saying it was over and that you loved him and logged off FaceTime before he came back. You couldn’t bear to look at him any longer. You didn’t get out of bed for the next two days.
You still can’t. He hasn’t seen you yet. You know this because despite the fact that every atom in your body hurts at the sight of him, you can’t look away. He’s trying to find you at the crowded bar. You don’t blame him, that was where you always used to sit. You probably should have told him you got a table. His eyes move on, searching the room. You’re too far away to see them, but you remember the exact shade of green they are. You know he won’t notice you because you used to hate sitting near the jukebox. You‘re right. His eyes skip over you. He seems confused, you see his lips move and you can almost hear him cursing under his breath. Or maybe that’s an echo you can’t shake off.
You get up slowly, the chair scrapes backwards loudly but the sound is lost in the cacophony of the room. You’re still looking at him, he’s still looking for you. You turn, slowly tearing your eyes away from him. You pick your coat off the back of the chair and walk towards the back door. You push it open and look over your shoulder one last time.
His brows are drawn together and he’s pulling out his phone, probably to text you. The crowd at the bar has thinned a bit and someone has taken over your table already. Someone is setting up a sound system in the corner, it’s probably open mic night. There’s a young girl standing at the jukebox, looking through the collection. Pink Floyd is still echoing off the walls but the song is coming to an end. You step into the chill of the alleyway and let the door close behind you, taking the noise with it. Snowflakes fall gently and dust your hair and shoulders. You walk back to your car in the silence.
Antara (she/her) is a 21-year-old queer Indian writer currently studying in Canada. She has been writing since she was ten years old. When she is not typing away on a word doc, you can find her behind a book, knitting, coding, or throwing impromptu dance parties.