Dave sat across from Steve. They occupied a two-top near a window at a small bar in downtown Wichita. It was mid-afternoon. A Friday in October. The sun was out, but it was cold, and clouds were moving in from the west.
They were on their first drink when Dave said, “I’ve leaving Catherine.”
Steve drank long and slow from his pint. He stared at Dave over the rim of the glass. Dave’s eyes fell away from Steve’s. He watched his friend’s neck muscles work: the taut ribbonlike tissue and rhythmic bob of the Adam’s apple as Steve worked the liquid down.
When Steve finished, he burped. Half the beer was gone. A foam mustache popped from his upper lip. Dave tapped his mouth and Steve took the hint. He wiped the mess away with the back of his hand.
“It’s called happy hour for a reason,” Steve said, as a pair of shadows glided across the table. Dave looked. Through the window a couple walked by, the man a few paces behind the woman. In another second, their shadows slid off the table edge. “An hour or two of happiness. Do we really need to unpack this right now?”
Dave sipped his scotch.
We, he thought.
“I’ve come to realize things haven’t been good for a while,” Dave said.
“Why don’t we play some darts?” Steve said, and stood. “Let’s play darts. Something to take your mind off your troubles.”
They decided not to keep score. A friendly scrimmage, Steve called it. Good thing, Dave thought. His game was off. And after several rounds of drinks and darts, he finally said, “It’s like my head’s telling them to do one thing and my hands are doing something else entirely.”
The last dart he’d thrown stuck in the wall inches above the board. He went over and collected it and the other two tacked to the outer rim of the dartboard. He went back to where he’d been standing.
“Give yourself a break,” Steve said, and clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re not always going to be top dog.”
He motioned for Dave to scooch. Steve’s first two throws found their mark. The last one stuck in the outer ring of the 18 segment, and closed out the number. Several small scoreboards covered in thin layers of chalkdust hung from a nearby support beam. Dave could make out the ghostly tally marks of past games. Wins. Losses. Steve yanked his darts out and went to a chalkboard. He licked an index finger and drew an X in the middle of it.
They finished the round and played most of another. Dave played much better this time. All he had left was the bullseye. It was like a switch inside him had flipped. Steve told Dave to hold off on his final throw. While Steve was up at the bar, Dave leaned his elbows against a table and looked out the window, the same one the couple had walked by earlier. It was dark now. Cars sped by with headlights on. Dave had meant to check the forecast to see if it might rain. After he called Steve late last night from his hotel to invite him out, Dave told himself it might be best if he walked.
Steve came back and handed Dave another scotch. A double. Steve had also switched liquor.
They cheersed.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Dave said, and tapped the tip of the dart against the table top. “How’re things with you and Alice?”
Steve sniffed. His glance plunged to his feet. He twisted the toe of his boot against floorboards, like he was grinding out a cigarette. Dave hadn’t smoked in years, but right then a cigarette sounded nice.
“We’re great,” Steve said. “Honestly, we couldn’t be happier.”
“Is that so,” Dave said, in a half-question, half-statement kind of way.
“You’re still up,” Steve said. He looked at Dave. “It’s your time to shine.”
“I think everyone could at least be a little happier,” Dave said. “In one facet of their lives or another, I mean. Don’t you?”
“What’s wrong with saying that we’re happy?”
“Nothing,” Dave said. He pointed at Steve with the dart. “But that isn’t what you told me. You told me, ‘we couldn’t be happier.’ That means you’ve reached the summit of happiness. Like there’s no room for any more of it. That you’re filled to the brim.”
Steve shook his head. He said, “You should hear yourself.”
“All I’m saying is I don’t buy it,” Dave said.
“Christ Almighty.” Steve laughed and ran a hand through his hair. He said, “You want to know what you’re problem is? You read too much into shit. You always have. It’s just a stupid expression. That’s all. A silly, every day, run-of-the-mill goddamn thing to say.”
Dave took a deep drink from his scotch. He said, “So which is it then? Are you filled with too much happiness or are you just saying that you are?”
Steve finished his drink in a single gulp. He coughed and brought the glass down against the table. The sharp clap echoed throughout the bar. Behind the bar, the bartender looked up from polishing a glass. She zeroed in on Steve with a glare that rumpled her face into a nest of wrinkles. Steve lifted a hand in apology. The bartender shook her head and went back to polishing.
Dave went over and took his place in front of the dartboard.
“So that’s it? You’ve said your little piece and now you’re done?” Steve said, and strode over.
He stood in front of Dave and leaned in close. His hot breath blanketed Dave’s cheek, and smelled like vanilla and charcoal. Here, Dave noticed how green Steve’s eyes were. He’d known Steve twenty years and if anyone were to ask him the color of his eyes up until right now, he would’ve said, Can’t be sure.
Steve ran a hand through his hair again, then shook his head.
“You know what? Forget it, Dave,” he said. “You’re right. I mean—Jesus—who in this life is ever perfectly happy with anything?”
Dave motioned for Steve to move. Once his path was clear, he lifted the dart and closed an eye as if peering through a rifle scope. Then he got it in his mind to close both. The ghostly version of the dartboard appeared on the backs of Dave’s eyelids. The black and green and cream patterns. The numbers. The red dot glared from the center. He drew back his hand, and threw. Dave wasn’t sure if he heard Steve say, “I don’t fucking believe this,” or if he imagined it. Either way, what did it matter? He already knew what happened, same as if his eyes had been open the whole time.
~
Nicholas Claro has published stories in American Literary Review, Louisiana Literature, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Variant Literature, Necessary Fiction, and others. He holds an MFA from Wichita State University, and is the author of the story collections This Is Where You Are and Sedgwick County. He lives in Wichita, Kansas.