It was noisy in the bar. From the crowd around me, I could make out fragmented voices, and music was playing from a speaker positioned right in front of me. I’m not saying the noise was unpleasant. That’s why I came to the bar—to be among people. Just to talk to someone, for something to happen. What that “something” was, I wasn’t sure. At home, the silence was oppressive. I wanted to talk about something, even if it was nonsense with some drunken fool. To share a story with someone. Unfortunately, there were no drunken fools in this bar. It was a colorful crowd, mostly young, successful professionals. I overheard fragments of conversations about work—topics I couldn’t join. It seemed I wasn’t going to find a kindred soul to talk to heart-to-heart.

I was sitting roughly in the middle of the bar. On my left, two girls with shiny makeup pretended not to notice my charming smiles. On my right, a huge man was asleep, resting his head on the bar. I didn’t want to wake him. Drunks can be interesting, but not when they’re so drunk they fall asleep at the bar. Then it’s best to just let them sleep. I had ordered wine, and in front of me was a plate of melted Brie cheese, which I spread on small crackers. I thought that might tempt someone to start a conversation with me. For example, someone might ask, “Is that tasty?”—and that would be enough to start talking. But no, that didn’t happen. I was eating alone. I looked at myself in the mirror behind the bar and thought how ridiculous I must look, calmly eating in the middle of all that chaos.

While I was thinking this, the two girls left, and a blonde woman sat down in their place. She was dressed in black—black jacket, blouse, jeans, and boots. Her face was pale, her eyes dark green. She wore little makeup. She noticed me looking at her. I wondered what her story was. Everyone has a story, a past through which you can understand the present—and maybe guess the future.

“Hi. My name’s Robi,” I said, offering her my hand.

She looked at me. Her eyes seemed unfocused when they stopped on mine. She was a little—or maybe more than a little—drunk and deep in thought about something only she knew. I decided to try to find out what it was before the night ended—without annoying her, of course.

“Beka,” she finally said.

“Would you like to try some of this?” I pointed to the cheese in front of me. She looked at the plate and shrugged.

“Why not,” she said, and scooped some melted Brie with a cracker.

“Wait. You have to add the jam too. That’s when the flavor’s complete.”

She smiled and added some jam. After she swallowed, she said,
“You seem like the kind of person who likes talking to strangers.”

“Not exactly… maybe sometimes. I like sharing things that feel meaningful—like the taste of this Brie. It’s nice when you can share something with someone in a—how should I put it—complete way. Even if it’s something small like a bite of Brie, or your whole life, if there’s someone willing to listen.”

“Well, then share something. Tell me something about yourself,” Beka said.

“Hmm, maybe I shouldn’t tell a stranger this, but I think I’m dying. I have cancer. See this scar?”—I pointed to my forehead—“They removed a mole. Could be melanoma. A kind of skin cancer.”

“I know what melanoma is. Did a doctor tell you that’s what it is?”

“Well, actually, the doctors said it’s probably harmless, but they removed it just in case.”

“You shouldn’t joke about something as serious as cancer,” someone said from my right. The voice belonged to a short, shriveled man around sixty. He wore a wrinkled leather jacket, worn and creased like him. It suited him—like a second skin. He must have taken the seat of the huge drunk man, who had somehow found the strength to leave. The man next to me reeked of cigarette smoke. He had ordered a glass of whiskey.

“Sorry?” I asked politely, not understanding.

“It’s not right to joke about cancer. My wife died of it.”

“I’m sorry. Was it melanoma?” I asked politely. I wanted to keep talking to the blonde, but it would’ve been rude to ignore a man sharing such a heartbreaking story.

“No. Lung cancer,” he said.

“You’re kidding?”

“No, completely serious. My wife smoked a lot and died recently,” the man said heatedly, almost ready for a fight.

“But you yourself smell of tobacco. Don’t you think that’s kind of a cruel joke? Instead of quitting smoking after your wife’s death, you… didn’t.”

The man fell silent. He stared into his glass as if he might find some revelation there.

“We fought a lot,” he muttered, then clarified, “With my wife. Always arguing. I was rough. Drinking makes me that way—a quarrelsome man. I should’ve stopped drinking. Loved her more. Maybe I did love her more than I showed. But I should’ve shown it more often. I miss her,” he said, and drained his glass. He ordered another. I followed his example and ordered another glass of wine. I turned to Beka, but she was talking to a man on her other side. I really wanted to talk to her. I didn’t want to sit there silent and confused. I thought about the man’s wife—how sad it was to die without knowing your husband loved you.
Or maybe she did know.

“Maybe she knew,” I said aloud.

“Doubt it. We fought to the end. About stupid things. But also about important ones. That I should stop smoking—and especially drinking. But when she got sick, quitting drinking was harder than ever. And now it’s too late,” he said. His eyes were teary. I hoped he wouldn’t start crying.

“Would you like some cheese?” I offered. He just waved his hand.

I turned back to Beka. The man she’d been talking to was gone. She was looking at the mirror behind the bar. I followed her gaze—a young blonde woman, probably in her late twenties. Her face was so long and sad, as if she were about to cry. What was your story, I wondered? Or maybe there was none, and it only seemed that way. There I was, a little drunk, sitting behind my plate of cheese, now cold.

“I think I’m not dying of cancer after all,” I finally said. “Almost sure of it. The doctor said so. Just letting you know, so you don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. That wouldn’t be fair.”

The man beside me snorted. I ignored him. Beka smiled. Even though we hadn’t talked much, I could tell she was drunk—more than I’d thought. I didn’t want anything bad to happen to her, even though I didn’t really know her.

“I think everything will be fine too,” she said. “I should go home.” She stood and stumbled. I caught her. She leaned on me. My lips accidentally brushed her ear. I wanted to whisper something dirty, or maybe bite it gently. I don’t even know why. Maybe because we were two people close together, and I wasn’t dying, and the wine was warm in my veins, and I felt alive. I wanted her. I wanted this little blonde. I didn’t want her to walk away into the night.

“Can I walk you home? Just for a bit? We can wait for a taxi together. I’m harmless.”

She laughed. “Oh, really? Well, if you say so. You can walk me home if you like. I live two blocks from here.”

I put on my coat, which had been hanging on the chair. I turned to say goodbye to the wrinkled man beside me, but he was gone, taking the smell of smoke and his story with him.

We headed for the exit. Beka’s steps were unsteady. I held her by the waist. The cold air outside refreshed us. It was early December, and it had snowed. Ice glittered treacherously here and there. We walked slowly, leaning on each other. Passing a parked car, I noticed a flower on its roof—an orchid in a pot. Someone had forgotten it there.

“Look,” I said to Beka, pointing at it.

“Oh God, an orchid,” she said. “Please, take it. Put it under your coat so it doesn’t freeze.”

“It’s probably already frozen,” I said. It was a cold, cloudless night. Beka went up to the orchid and touched it.

“No, it’s still warm. Someone just forgot it. Please, take it.”

I wondered why she reacted so strongly, why she cared so much about the flower. I shrugged but obeyed. I put the orchid under my coat and walked beside her.

She was silent for a while, then said, as if explaining her reaction:
“My brother got drunk two weeks ago. Fell asleep two steps from our apartment entrance. We found him the next morning. It was too late, of course.”

That was all she said. I looked at her. Poor little blonde. So that was her story. I didn’t know what to say. There was nothing in the world I could say that wouldn’t sound like a cliché. We kept walking, unsteady on the ice. The darkness bristled around us, biting with a thousand teeth of cold, sharp glass. I thought I had to say something, otherwise I’d burst. Nothing came to mind. Nothing. Then I felt the orchid under my coat—alive, warm. I held Beka tighter around the waist.

“We’re alive. We’re alive, aren’t we?” I said finally, with hope.

Beka looked at me in surprise. Then she looked ahead. We kept walking, holding each other, careful not to slip on the icy sidewalk, while the teeth of the darkness tried to close around us and tear us into a thousand tiny shards of glass.

“Yes. We’re alive,” Beka finally nodded.