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sanchopanzalit

Long Lonely December

Vania Martin


Snow falls like feathers, silent and soft. 


From my seat at the bar, I watch the snow fall, tucked up in the warmth of an establishment that is open twenty-four hours. Through storm, shine or snow. The whisky – or whiskey as the liquor-sticky menu had claimed it – rolls between my hands and shines amber despite the sombre lighting. Lights hang sporadically around the bar, but the lampshades haven’t been cleaned in a while and I doubt you care. Sitting behind the bar on your phone for the past hour. Why should you care about how dark it is here? I too couldn’t care less. I just have to wait it out. So, I guess, do you.


I’ve looped my thick, striped scarf over the handle of the dull yellow carry-on suitcase at my feet, bashed in the corner from when I dropped it on the stairs of the subway. Crash bang. And everybody was staring at me. Just my luck. My gloves, completely dissimilar to my scarf and far older, sit in the pocket of the thick corduroy jacket hanging from the empty barstool beside me. The whisky does a good enough job at keeping me warm, mixing with the blood in my veins to grip my bones in its intoxicating clutch. 

You and I are the only people here. 


Maybe we are both enjoying the quiet. Your thumbs typing away – is that an American thing or a young person thing, do you think? Keeping the keyboard sounds on? – mixing with the crackling of the jukebox in the corner that, every so often, gets stuck on a song and plays it three times before you fix it. Do you always wait until the third time to fix it? I’d fix it immediately. I can’t stand listening to the same song over and over again. You know, it’s played ‘Son of a Preacher Man’ twice now? You should really fix that. It’s a great song, but it’ll get old soon enough. You seem like the type to like this type of music. The quiet calmness. The soothing lilt to her voice. I bet you’re the type to listen to the same song over and over, lying on your bed, feet resting on the headboard, pretending the world does not exist. 


You look up just as it flicks to play again. You sigh when you stand, stretching the crack in the cricks of your spine. Wait. You’ve left your phone open on the bar top, you should – it’s too late, you’re already crossing to the other side of the bar to turn off Dusty Springfield. 

I can’t help but sneak a glance. 


got class @ 10. cant miss it again if i wanna pass. sleep on bus, yes or no?  


You’ve added a few yellow emojis I don’t understand. A sleeping one and one that seems to be missing a mouth. Am I officially too old to understand college students? Christ, how long has it been since I was one of them? It feels like last year I was falling asleep in the library halfway through writing my dissertation. What was that even on? Some literature thing. Maybe Scottish literature. I half remember having to read a lot of Nan Shepherd. And look where that’s got me. Drinking whisky in an empty airport bar at 4am. 


Three more hours until my flight. 


At least I’ve got you for company. 


You must hate this job. When you return to the bar, you ask if I want another drink. I shouldn’t. I should be clear-headed for my flight. I nod and push my glass over the countertop. Your fingers wrap around it, painted black fingernails chipping, and you fill it with the same whisky I drink whenever I go home. 


Christ. Home. 


Is it really home? I mean, it’s where I head every Christmas, stuck in this airport so I can catch the earliest flight back. Then, 7 hours spent sitting next to a stranger. Sometimes they try to tell me their life story. Oh, I’m going to Scotland for so and so. Oh, I’m an eighth Scottish. We could be from the same clan, you know? Americans love talking about clans. And then, I get the train for the next three hours. A bus for forty-five minutes, if there’s no snow. Add an extra hour if the snow has stuck. An extra hour and a half if it's snowing at the time. Then, finally, I am standing in front of the cottage I called home for twenty-four years of my life. 


I down my whisky. 


I’ve nae idea why I only go home at Christmas. Sorry. No idea. And, anyway, I’m a liar. I do know. You fill up my drink. Again. Is this my third or my fourth? Whatever, I should make it my last. But, it’s the only thing keeping me warm. Do you care? Probably not. You get paid to sit here and give me whisky. Why the hell would you care? I’ll sober up by the time I get on the plane, anyway. I’ve never been a particularly good flyer and yet, every Christmas, I make the same journey home. 


See, my mum loves the holidays. She decorates the house until there’s nae a free space left. Sorry. No. I’ve got to stop doing that. She has three Christmas trees. Who needs three trees? None of them are real, either. She’s allergic or something, so she gets those fake fibre ones. Our main one stands tall in the living room, dark green, hung with glittering gold tinsel and baubles that never match. It’s aboot as old as I am. About. Christ, sorry, this always happens when I’m talking about home, like I’m infected with a language I can never rid myself of. A disease. I usually hide it well, most people just assume I’m British of some sort and, after living here long enough, I’ve basically picked up enough of the accent to make myself sound like the rest of the folk in my office. Man, I hate my office. You would hate an office job. You’ve got dyed hair – they would hate you. 


Anyway. What was I saying? 


Right, yeah. My mum has three trees. The dark green one in the living room. The pink one that sits in the dining room that has white baubles and a white star. And the red one at the top of the stairs that plays music. It’s the newest one and her favourite, because she loves experimenting with technology she disnae understand. I hate it. Every time she turns it on it says “Bluetooth connecting” in that stupid robotic voice that makes me shiver. I thought those 80s sci-fi movies were meant to be a warning against technology, now look at us. We’re bloody letting them loose in our hooses. 


Another drink. It is warm in my throat. Light amber, full-bodied. It smells a little like chocolate and coffee. It tastes like alcohol burning my throat and I’m fine with that. I’d rather that than vodka that always sticks to the back of my tongue and I can never rid myself of the taste. You drink vodka, don’t you? Look like the type, anyway. You won’t like it when you’re my age and two doubles is enough to have a headache coming on. 


You’d think I hate Scotland. I don’t. Well – I don’t much. See, it’s home, innit? Nae matter how long I live here, I’m always going back. I can never stay away. It’s like some type of love-hate relationship. 


I left because I was the youngest of five. Hated it. Hated all these older siblings who had all these friends who made fun of me and who all our teachers said I reminded them of. They had all these prospects I could never dream of being smart enough to achieve. Ambulance driver, lawyer, surgeon. Whatever. I went to university and got a literature degree. Bet that’s what you do too. This is what happens to literature students. We end up working in bars because nobody really cares about us. Whit are we supposed to do with our lives? Live in cottages with our mums and three Christmas trees? 


God. No. 


I had to get out o’ there. So I did. Got a job looking after these French kids over here and never looked back, really. You should do the same. Maybe you will. Get that degree and jump on a plane and never work in another bar. You’re better than that. 


I was better than that wee cottage. 


And yet, every year, I return to those three fucking Christmas trees. 


I will always be seventeen in that house. Give me another drink. The fire burns my throat instead of tears. I want to be seventeen. I want to be eleven. I want to be five. I want to be a baby again, warm in a cocoon of blood. It is easier than living this life, sitting in the same office, surrounded by grey walls and grey ceilings and grey people. Everyone is so grey all the time. 


You would love it abroad. But this is all you’ve ever known, isn’t it? This big city, all these people. All these different places to eat on every corner. All these sounds and beautiful skyscrapers and lovely, warm summers. I came here to get away. You’ll leave and realise you never hated it after all. Maybe, in twenty years, you’ll be sitting in an airport bar at Christmas and realise you miss it. I miss being you. 


Snow sticks to the window.  


At home, it settles like a blanket in the quietness of the countryside. It isn’t like that here. It is too harsh, too bitter on the skin. It pelts the glass of the windows and never quite makes me feel cosy no matter how hard I try. The snow here turns to ice quicker than I can get used to it and I hate how different it is to home. I hate it here. I hate it here. I hate it here Ihateithere Ihateithere IhateithereIhateithereIhateithereIhateithere– Do I want to go home? 


I stare at the amber whisky, the snow, the old scarf I’ve had since I was twenty-two. 


I shouldn’t drink anymore. 


I push away the empty glass and you take it from me, placing it with the rest of the empty glasses that will get cleaned when I disappear. I wish I could disappear. Become nothing. I won’t have to be the person who lives here anymore. I won’t have to be the person who desperately wishes they could go home and feel nothing. Disappearance means nothingness. Wouldn’t that be easier? 


Wouldn’t that feel like home? 


The tannoy crackles to life and my flight is called. I stand, pull on my jacket, leave the gloves in the pocket and unhook the scarf from the suitcase handle. You hold out the card machine so I can pay my open tab and smile, for the first time tonight, when I hand over a pretty generous tip. You have to catch a bus to college in the morning. You don’t even get to sleep. 


Neither do I, really. 


In twenty years’ time, maybe we’ll sit next to each other at an airport bar on the way home. 


You find your voice over the music. “Thanks for the story.” Tiredness drags down the bags beneath your eyes. I didn’t really think you were listening to me ramble. I got used to nobody listening. “See you next December.” 


“Aye. I’ll be here.” 


I always am. 


And you always change. A different bartender to hear the same story. A different college student getting a bus in the morning. A different college student with the same bitten fingernails and the same tired eyes. But, always me in this bar drinking too many whiskies. 


See you next December. 

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