The Flip
One, two, three, four. Flip. The dim overhead light flickers, typical. One, two, three, four. Flip. The walls of the tiny, grungy bathroom stall covered in some drunk asshole’s chicken scratch feel oddly comforting at 11pm on a Tuesday. One, two, three, four. Flip. This little tick is nothing new. It’s something she’s been doing as far back as she can remember. Always the same coin, an old vintage English pound given to her by her grandfather. The metal and gold border with Her Majesty’s stoic portrait gleaming even in the dim light of the bar’s bathroom. It’s more than just a tick, it’s almost a necessity for her. Both a comfort and a curse. Feeling the cold metal against her skin makes her feel whole. She puts the coin away, flushes out of habit and leaves the bathroom.
Into the bar, into the noise. The hustle and bustle of the packed crowd, sweating,
pulsating, pushing her through, guiding her towards the actual bar which sits somewhat awkwardly in the middle of the floor. She can see that James is working tonight. His shiny black hair glistening as he pours drink after drink, mindlessly from behind the bar as people move around him. He never breaks a sweat, never over pours. He’s been here as long as she has, night after night. It’s comforting in a way, him always being there, in the same spot. It’s reliable, constant, familiar. Things in her life she needs to feel normal.
The dance floor is packed. It’s sweaty, with people swaying back and forth to the music that’s beating a decibel too loud and just enough where the buzz is wearing off. After 3 drinks it’s hard to make out anyone in the crowd. She wonders if these people come here night after night, zombie like mindlessly going through the motions. She fingers the coin in her pocket, twisting it while in her mind she repeats her mantra, one, two, three, four. Flip. Sometimes there’s no rhyme or reason to the flip. The coin flip is typically a game of chance. It can be serious, or trivial. Tonight it’s serious. She’s already decided. They are supposed to meet at 7:30. They agreed. 7:30, usual bar. She’s too old for this. The third drink was a mistake but the coin flip never fails her and she has to abide by it.
It’s how the decisions in her life, big like which college she went to, or small like which takeout place dinner would come from that night. The lights begin to strobe throughout the club and she feels her heart start to jump a bit at the thought of potentially seeing him tonight. The ghost. The reason she comes here night after night. She knows she shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be downing so many drinks but she can’t help it. It’s a compulsion, an obsession almost. She can’t get out of it. Can’t find a way out no matter how hard she tries. She’ll pay for it tomorrow with a massive hangover no doubt. The drive, the need is too great, she couldn’t stop even if she wanted to.
One, two, three, four. Flip. Fuck. Another drink. She orders a whiskey on the rocks, downs it and feels herself loosening. She checks her watch, 7:20. Ten minutes. She wonders if she should flip the coin to decide whether to wait or leave. She quickly decides against it and orders another drink. She lets her mind wander to their first meeting. A seasonably warm spring day in late April. She had just finished a large project for her dissertation—the life and times of Anne Boylen. Obviously ending in tragedy with her death, the overall feeling is one of sympathy for a woman who climbed her way to the top only to be suffocated and slapped down by a powerful man. Suddenly the irony isn’t lost on her. They met on a park bench of all places. Chatting endlessly about anything and everything before exchanging numbers and agreeing to meet later that week. She finishes the drink in one gulp, checks her watch again, fingers the coin in her pocket. One, two, three, four. Flip.
At 8:30 she gathers her last bit of courage in the form of one more drink before looking up and noticing him coming towards her at a rapid pace. Her heart skips a beat, and she feels some relief even through the haze of the buzz that’s starting to cloud her mind. He looks distressed and even so, handsome as ever in his perfectly cut suit. She gets up to greet him but instead of stopping at her, he moves past her to another woman sitting at the other end of the bar. She had noticed her but didn’t really get a good look at her. She was wearing a tight red dress, minimal jewelry, one of which she could see as clear as day, a small gold wedding band on her left ring finger. Just then she hears the familiar ping of a text message coming in.
“Sorry, can’t make it tonight, held up at work. Let’s catch up later this week. Can’t wait to see you!”
Well, there it is. She hesitates for a few seconds, pulls out the coin one last time. One, two, three, four. Flip. It doesn’t matter which side it lands on, she’s already ordering a whiskey neat, telling the bartender where to send it. He looks up for a brief moment, she raises her glass to him and notices his wife fitting the pieces together. Before she can come to a conclusion about the mysterious other woman at the bar, she slips away. Her phone starts buzzing with the familiar sound of incoming text messages that she knows are from him. Without giving it a second thought she blocks his number and makes her way back into the hoards of dancers, sweaty, loud, free. A lone coin left behind on the bar, head’s up.