Steve Kistulentz - Panorama

He sat on the edge of the mattress and scattered the Polaroids beside him. His favorite fell out on top, the great plane of Cadence’s surprisingly tan torso from ribcage to hip bone, a spot that he loved to kiss. Even though he possessed other, more graphic pictures of her, some pantomimed from men’s magazines, this snapshot held the strongest erotic charge for him; twice in the past week he had looked at these pictures, and it was this tame one that still stirred his orphaned cock. That he was the only person who could know it was Cadence’s stomach made the resultant manual relief he’d given himself feel not just emptying but tremendously sad.

There was something pathetic, he knew, in his compulsion to conceal these pictures like some pimply teen stashing Playboy s under his mattress. Richard did not want the Polaroids to be a reminder of loss. He suspected that his immediate future would contain a conversation in which Cadence demanded the return of the photographs, with all the ceremony and enjoyment of a prisoner-of-war exchange.

Now, on this New Year’s Eve, Richard could not conjure any solid recollection of the past seven weeks; Thanksgiving had passed both unnoticed and uncelebrated, and he’d worked on an amicus brief throughout the better part of a Christmas Day on which he’d had no invitations and his phone did not ring. The days became unremarkable, a hodgepodge of half-finished work, bookended by that one painful evening when Cadence had declared her need to, as she put it, reassess, and now by this last holiday of the year.

His resolutions were simple: to address all of Cadence’s complaints, the things she had said to him about his diet, his general inertia, his professional tendencies to fly off the handle on live television, defending things she suspected that he did not truly believe. Lately it was getting more difficult to work himself up into the froth that television demanded. Had she seen tonight’s stunt, she probably would have turned off the set.

He left the photos on the bed and stepped into the galley kitchen to tend to his bachelor supper. After throwing together a green salad with just a tablespoon of an oil-and-vinegar dressing, he checked his steak; even though he liked things on the cool side of medium rare, it needed another couple of minutes. Enough of a window to call his sister. That was part of the plan too. Keep up with the remnants of his family, remember every important occasion, every birthday. There were only two to remember now, anyway: his sister, Mary Beth, and his nephew, Gabriel. They would be at home, certainly. But after four rings, he found himself talking to the answering machine: “Hey, it’s your brother. You must be out and about. I just wanted to wish you guys a happy New Year and all that, swap resolutions. Oh yeah, I’ll be on TV tomorrow. The usual shouting match, right around three o’clock Eastern Time, between the bowl games. I’m breaking out a new suit, custom made. I finally have proper attire for the budding pundit.”

He hated the sound of his voice, the lonely echo it made against the ancient plaster walls of his apartment. It reminded him of how he sounded on television, syllables reverberating in his earpiece, the tautologies he was well paid to parrot, as if what he said might find some meaning if only he repeated it often enough. He carried his dinner into the living room, took up residence on the couch, and dug into what he swore would be his last piece of red meat.

For seven weeks Richard had tried to be hard-boiled about losing Cadence, as the breakup was reinforced by her refusal of dinner invitations that he’d meant to appear spontaneous, her abject unwillingness to reveal her simplest plans or whereabouts, the disappearance of his phone calls into her voicemail. She wanted, she said, a clean break. Time to think. Alone at the turn of the year, the point exactly where past, present, and future came together, he could no longer put up a stoic front. That was the real reason he wasn’t out celebrating. He wanted to call Cadence, use all his skills in oral argument, tell her how much he was willing to change for her. But he did not. He suffered, as he feared he always might, from a thickness of heart and tongue.

THE LOBBY bar of Mike and Mary Beth’s hotel—with its low-slung round tables topped with green felt, dark wood veneer paneling festooned with horseshoes, antlers, and framed posters of Ansel Adams photographs—was an anachronistic disaster. For a few years it had been a British pub, and when that idea went sour, only the dartboards stayed. Then the room had been known as the Capital Club and tried to pass itself off as the place where state legislators came to unwind. Now it was called the Canyon Room, but the decor hadn’t changed. The furniture had been accessorized with Navajo blankets and the barstools covered in recycled denim, the menu heavy on exotic grilled meats and Irish coffees spiked with crème liqueurs. It was a casual room, and, despite the holiday, only a few men, Mike Renfro and two others, wore suits. And those three men were the oldest in the room.

When Mary Beth entered the bar, the first thing she saw was Mike, saying to a waitress, “The hardest part of my job is telling people the bad news.”

Mary Beth stepped behind Mike and tapped him on the shoulder. He stood to greet her, taking her hands while announcing, “You look exactly right—perfect,” a compliment she accepted even though she suspected it was rote.

“ Perfect is a little much, but thanks.”

“How about stunning? ”

“I’ll settle for passable. No runs in my stockings, no chips in my nail polish, and no stray lipstick,” Mary Beth said, whipping her tongue across her teeth. “And one of whatever you’re drinking.”

“A pair of bourbons, with a little splash of branch water,” he said.

The bartender shuffled a new drink in front of him, handed one over to Mary Beth, then topped off the bowl of mixed nuts. “Just what is branch water anyway?”

Mary Beth said, “A Texas thing. Water from a freshwater stream. Or at least it’s supposed to be.”

The bartender grinned. “The other day, some elderly guy comes in, maybe seventy-five, and asks for a highball. Hadn’t heard that one in a while. My old man used to call it that. A little bourbon, a little ginger ale.” The bartender busied himself with a dingy towel, wiping it along the bar rail, then folding it into thirds.

Mike chomped through a couple of cashews. “I thought bartenders knew how to make everything.”

“I’m not a bartender, I just play one on TV. I’m trying to make a few bucks while I study for the bar exam. And I like to keep it simple. When I was in college, I worked with a guy who refused to make any drink that wasn’t named after its ingredients.”

Mary Beth said, “My father always told me never to drink anything with more than three ingredients. Bourbon, water, ice. Ice counted as an ingredient. Keeps things predictable. The way I like it. What happens when somebody orders something that you don’t know how to make?”

The bartender pulled out a Mr. Boston bartending guide from beside the register. “I’ve got it covered. I believe in being prepared for any eventuality.” Mike noticed the plain gold band on the bartender’s hand. Married. Which meant he was a prospect.

“Me too,” Mike said. “It’s part of my job. Insurance.” His hand went back into his jacket pocket, a nervous habit. He liked to turn the solid pile of business cards with his fingers, feel the embossed print, the way he used to fidget with his cigarettes back in his smoking days. Mike filched one card, a practiced movement, and laid it in front of his drink. “Mike Renfro,” he said, and the bartender wiped his hand on his leg before returning the handshake.