A Fool's Dream

Rhett swirled the clear tequila in his glass, drinking it straight and neat. The tequila circled around and around, tilting down the side, and then falling into the mouth of Rhett, every drop. He licked his lips, fooling himself he’d be satisfied with just another taste, satisfied enough to finally leave the bar, but he knew he’d stay. The weight of his sorrow depressed him deeper in the stool like a three ton overcoat enveloping over his shoulders. Yes, he knew he wasn’t going anywhere. So he stopped fighting it.

Rhett tried to extend deniability, some poor excuse to his subconscious, and only glanced at the bartender rather than flag him down like a man. No, Rhett sat there sheepishly instead, patiently waiting like a polite boy for his cup of nightcap, his third in the dragging hour until midnight. Rhett negotiated with his subconscious that at midnight, for certain, he’d take off for the night. The bitter drops of habitual poison mocked his heart; he knew he’d stay long after midnight, stuck to that stool like glue.

Crystal clear Patrón slipped comfortably back in the glass in front of Rhett as the bartender poured, like a fish tank that’s being refilled with fresh, clean, new liquid – the way it’s supposed to be, full. He swirled the tequila in his glass, forming yet another pattern, and touched the crutch to his lips. A sigh escaped from him, and the desperate noise sobered Rhett as he heard himself whimper like a lost dog.

The sobering sigh reminded Rhett exactly why he found himself drinking his sorrows away – or the last few bits of joy away, it was hard to tell. Alexandra. It had to be girl, didn’t it? Yes, Rhett fit nicely in the tried cliché of drunken heartaches lined up at the bar, as many men have since the dawn of time. Rhett fell victim to the timeless case of falling for a fool’s dream called love. There’d be no point in spelling out the story; it was the same as any other.

He sat there in that barstool and felt that angry pity men do when they try to reason with themselves. Rhett kicked himself in a weak effort to recall red flags and warning sings Alexandra left on the road to heartbreak. He sat there in that barstool, drinking alone and talking to himself, as one does when they try to hurry maturity, and reason how he wouldn’t ever let that happen again. Oh no, he said to himself, next time will be different. Yes, next time it’ll last.

It’s funny how quick the same expression used for optimism is often a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Next time. The only hope a man has to rely on in his feeble attempt at a fool’s dream is luck; lucky enough she’ll forgive him, lucky enough he’ll do his part, lucky enough she decides to love him and mean it. Too much about it seems farfetched, and whether he liked it or not, Rhett was one step closer with each sip of his poison that love could never be banked on.

The only shot anyone really has at love is while they’re young, while they still dream and laugh. Before they know what the world is like, before they find out what we’re really like. No, children dream of love because they haven’t been broken by expectations. It’s not the expectations that are to blame, just yourself for believing them. Yes, only fools believe in those childish expectations, and it’s a fools dream to expect a pure love in this cold world.

The warm tequila slithered down Rhett’s throat and buzzed around his body like a dangerous mistress hugging him, the kind of embrace that scares a man because that kind of infatuation is only felt in an affair, secret and sinful. He knew the clock told well past midnight, but to avoid any further subconscious negotiating, he didn’t check and furthered his deniability. He knew it was time to go. But he wouldn’t, as long as he didn’t admit it. And as long as he didn’t admit he was drowning in a well of tequila and self-pity, he wouldn’t have to grab the rope and pull himself out of this bout. No, as long as Rhett didn’t acknowledge any of this, he’d never have to face the consequences. Perhaps he’d never have to consider anything he thought this night, if he just kept to himself and cozied closer to the Patrón. Yes, he’d keep the hardship of truth far away, like a paddle ball he’d bounce away to keep it from hitting him in the face. Until then, he’d numb those fears with a crystal clear elixir, keeping him from ever considering the countless romances that testify the gospel of a fool’s dream of love.