Buffalo Wild Wings

Picture Harmony in strappy red lingerie. That picture on Facebook. Her staring up, glossy-eyed. Mindy, the babysitter, at the beach. Blue and white bikini. Sliding sunscreen across her skin. Mrs. Dunn in plaid pants. Sixth grade, wiping the blackboard. Back and forth. Oh, I hated her. I hate, -ate, -ate, h-ate-d her guts.

One … two … three … four … five seconds of quiet.

A McDonald’s napkin from the glove box, zip, click, clunk, and I’m standing in the Buffalo Wild Wings parking lot. I shouldn’t be here, but I don’t want to be alone. Saturday afternoon means college football, so the strip mall is pockmarked with beaters and mud-caked F150s.

Daylight sets through the double doors. TVs glare from the walls. Just shoulder past the middle-aged guys in jerseys and cougars in leopard print.

Wait, is that him? My sister’s old boyfriend? That asshole boxed her against other girls in our backyard. I boxed her, too, and I’m horrible.

There’s Harmony, working. There’s her ass, curving into her back like a treble clef.

I don’t want to talk to her because I have a girlfriend. Kind of. I’ve been Skyping with Megan in Korea. That’s bullshit, though.

“Dude, check this out,” shouts my other housemate, Mike, flashing his phone to some guy. It’s the pic where his girlfriend is naked except for an orange Home Depot apron. I hand back his keys.

Dan — who also, apparently, loves beer and The Ohio State — snickers. “She’s flat as a board, man. Flat. As. A. Board.”

My groin twists. Shit, shit, shit. It’s that you-need-to-piss-right-now feeling. A doctor called it prostatitis. Once I start pissing, it feels like I’m still pissing, even when I’m not. And it burns and aches.

Dan thumbs his phone. “Now here’s a real woman forya.” He holds up a nude pic like a third-place trophy in a dirt bike race. Her breasts dangle over her bubble wrap stomach.

Mike tucks his chin.

“Haha!” Dan blurts. “She’s a total crackhead, right?”

Mike laughs. I frown and eye the corner bathroom. Not there. Never.

“What can I say?” Dan says. “That’s my cousin.”

This time I laugh, but Dan glares. This place isn’t backwoods, but it is small town. Real small town.

Dan howls, “I had you!” head back, pointing. “I had you like a bitch!”

Mike cackles. I taste piss.

“No dude, seriously … ,” Mike says, starting the story how his brother hooked up with their fifth cousin and now they’re dating.

The patio is fenced in, but it’s closest. Out there three guys share a blunt.

I unzip in a corner and —

“Hey, can I get a hit?”

— my bladder latches shut.

That’s Harmony.

I don’t want to talk to her because I’d disappoint her. That’s bullshit, though.

“Hey, Nick!” Harmony says. “C’mere!”

“No thanks,” I say.

“You smoked back in high school,” she says, grabbing my forearm.

“Not anymore,” I say. That same look in her eyes. “Not since I had a bad acid trip.” She’s alone. She’s alone, too.

“I totally get it,” Harmony says, staring up from five-foot-nothing. “That shit’s serious.”

A new twinge. If you get a hard-on during a prostatitis flare up it’s not going anywhere.

“I gotta piss,” I say and duck inside.

She follows. There’s no way she doesn’t see my erection.

“You’re coming back, right?” she says leaning in. She smells like lavender. “I wanna talk to you.” Not laundry detergent. Real lavender.

I head for the front. Everything’s static until I’m pissing through a hard-on behind a dumpster.

The real reason I don’t want to talk to Harmony is because she works here, where my sister got raped.

“I’m driving. I choose the music,” I said when I picked her up and drove her to another bar.

“Still driving. Still my music,” I said when I drove her back because she left her purse.

She didn’t talk about it for years.

I walk home.

That evening, I lie down.

Picture Harmony in strappy red lingerie. Mindy the babysitter. Mrs. Dunn the teacher. Megan on Skype. Mike’s girlfriend. The crackhead with sad boobs. Anyone. Forget picking up my sister at Buffalo Wild Wings. Picture Harmony staring up, a-, a-, alone, a-fucking-lone. All alone.

One … two … three seconds of quiet.

 

Nicholas De Marino is a former journalist and aspiring bon vivant. His writing has appeared in everything from High Times to Animal Wellness. He’s a columnist at foofaraw and founded 5enses, a print alt monthly. He’s neurodivergent, a sexual abuse survivor, and has some degrees.