Devonne Brown

“I was only there for one week thirty-five years ago,” Max told George. “I’m sure Alice doesn’t feel the same way I feel toward her.”

Max had met Alice when they were camp counselors at 4-H camp when they were seniors in college. They were collecting and stacking logs for the opening night bonfire when they fell in love, made the requisite plans to stay in touch, and never saw each other again.

Now, after thirty-five years, Max was about to see Alice again. She sat at the bar of the hotel waiting for friends maybe, her husband perhaps? Max was divorced, his wife drank, his son had a substance abuse problem, and his girls were scattered across the country. Alice looked different somehow, her face was wizened. It was the same except for a few wrinkles, but it was hard and had an edge to it. Her hair was red instead of brown. A wariness that hadn’t been there thirty-five years ago. Alice had changed.

Max took a seat in a booth across the room and watched as she ordered a drink. Something came in a fancy glass with olives and onions, a martini. She drank it down fast and ordered another one. She sipped the second one slowly, then chewed on an olive. The bartender brought her another drink.

A man joined Alice at the bar and she leaned away from him as he kissed her cheek. She was more interested in her martini. Max watched the interchange between the man and Alice. Her face was not the soft smiling face he remembered, but taught and full of spite and malice. 

The man at the bar bought a beer and ordered another martini for Alice, her fourth one in less than half an hour. Max was less interested in Alice than he was curious about her. What kind of woman drinks four martinis in less than half an hour and still stays upright? A lot can happen in thirty-five years. 

Max’s fantasy of Alice died a quick and painful death while he watched her from across the room. He’d spent thirty-five years thinking about what he would say to her, how she would look, and what she would say to him. It took him thirty-five minutes to see a woman he was afraid of. He didn’t like the look of hard bitterness and the glassy eyed wobble headed woman he saw seated at the bar now. He couldn’t find the sweet girl tossing him logs the night of the bonfire. 

He was grateful for the semidarkness when she turned around to scan the room. Her eyes lit on him for a few seconds and moved on without recognition. Max was grateful for the years or the alcohol that clouded her memory of him.