100 Proof

At one time, the allure of this particular Irish pub was the shark in the fish tank. It circled, one sullen eye always on the patrons. Other fish stayed out of its way.

Only recently, I realized the shark was gone. Perhaps it demanded a pay raise, tired of serving as cheap entertainment. Perhaps, barring that, it bought itself a ticket to freer seas.

I’d like to believe that the shark is elsewhere and didn’t just die of boredom. But there are many other Irish pubs, so I suppose he could be swimming at one of them, instead.

The most public display of affection of all is that moment just after a couple is joined in holy matrimony. And yet, more than 50 percent of couples kiss awkwardly at that moment, lips bumping teeth or teeth bumping teeth or lips drier than sand, as if they are afraid to let the world see their affection, or as if they’re practicing for the inevitable moment when they kiss one last time before half the couple walks out the door alone.

They stumbled down the stairs so quickly they became like choppy water rather than walkers. At first, she thought one carried a pool cue.

It was only when they crossed the room, still arm and arm, that she realized the pool cue was actually a cane, and the stumbling had as much to do with unfamiliarity of landscape as with the liquid poured into their mouths.

Ordinarily she was not so angry. But this night inflamed her, flaring her from embers so chronic she’d stopped noticing their glow.

She could not douse herself, no matter how hard she tried. She could only let the fire rage until it seared away the surface, incinerated the places where he once lit her like tinder.

Like awkward fish, they swim past me in small suits, drifting in and out of my lane. Their father peers over the bulkhead, attempting an apology.

“I used to be a lifeguard,” I say. “I know how to evade.”

But later, when my streamline off the wall drives me almost directly into one of the small bodies, I sputter.

“Ladies.” I have never sounded more like my mother. “Swimming across my path is a really bad idea.”

She described good people as being like rising water. Good, clean water that lifts without taking houses, schools, churches, hospitals. Water that sparkles in sunlight, feels good between the toes, and makes a noise akin to giggling.

Those are the people, she said, who you want around you. Those are the people who keep you afloat.

It started to snow again barely 24 hours after we got 11 inches. The very act of donning snow boots, gloves, hat left me exhausted, and in the parking lot, I stumbled through rutted snow, teetering toward an oncoming vehicle.

“Don’t get hit, now,” said the parking lot attendant.

“I’ll try not to,” I said. “But if this winter keeps up, I might just throw myself in front of a car.”