Trees That Burn

‘Nothing wounded goes up hill.’

Cormac McCarthy

ACT I

He was a survivor of the years that belonged to tequila. His complementary misfortunes were being both a romantic and a writer in a single body, torn down the two different roads, bound for the same unnameable place. He had left England for the Americas some years before and, kept upright or perhaps even afloat by his only novel, he had claimed something someone somewhere might have described as looking almost like a life. But not him.

Outside the bar the air is cool, but has a kinetic quality about it. Like it's saying, 'sure this nights over for you, but buddy, it's just getting started for me'. I move down the street and I see her again. She's forty-eight feet wide, fourteen high, and she looks to be about a mile above me. She's much closer in reality, spread across the side of a building. Her hair is red, though it isn't really and her freckles are gone, though they aren't really. Big red-gold letters say 'Seraphim by Saint Laurent’. I knew her in school, when the height of fame was getting caught fucking in parks and being a rugby team captain. Her favourite colour was yellow and she laughed harshly not often enough.

I light a cigarette and start walking. Immediately I get a call.

“Yeah?” I slur.

“Hey, there’s my number one superstar, how’s it hanging, my man, little to the left, amirite?”

“What? No, look, it’s late, why are you calling me?”

“Late as in I’m late in telling you how amazing your new chapters are? Because they, my friend, are spec-tac-ular. Also, it’s just gone nine.”

“What?” I checked my screen. The man did not lie. “Fuck. When did I start drinking today?”

He laughed. “That’s my chief! I won’t take up too much of your time, but I’ve had a little sit down with some of the fat cat suits and they’re worried about the direction you’re taking with this novel.”

“What’s wrong with the fucking direction?” I said.

“Whoa, buddy, I love it, just the guys don’t think it’s the right move. They think it’s too you.”

“Too me? What does that mean? Who’s they?”

“Ah, hear that?” I did not. “Back to the ol’ crucible, they need me bad boo, anyway, right up some new concept pages okay? Later gator.”

The phone went dead.

By the time my Camel had perished by the pavement with a hiss of satisfaction, I had found the teenagers. Dressed in five and dime suits and expensive dresses, they loitered with the absent idleness of pouncing animals. They approached as I drew near.

“Hey, how’s it going?” One of them said.

I looked at her. She was maybe seventeen. She was pretty. She was sober.

“It’s going. You?”

“It’s okay, I guess. Are you British?”

“English, yeah.”

“That’s so cool.”

I snorted. “If you say so.”

Her friends muttered behind her back and laughed. She turned to them with what I can only assume was a glance of derision.

“Listen, we’re in a little bit of a bind.”

At this point I had lit up again and offered her one. She hesitated. She gingerly took it.

“What are you missing?” I asked.

“What?”

“What are you missing?” I asked again. “A ride? Booze, drugs, what?”

She hesitated again.

“The second one?” I guessed.

“Yeah.”

I took a drag. So did she. My phone rang. I let it ring. She never took her eyes off mine. The silence returned.

“Okay.”

There was a discount liquor shop around the corner, tentatively named Happy Joe’s. I made them a bargain. I would buy them alcohol if I got to choose what it was. They agreed. I felt a pang of empathy. Students looking for a night to remember and flexible on the remembering. I walked into the shop. The lights were too harsh and too cold but I persevered. The selection felt like a poorly organised library of bad decision catalysts. Regardless, I found what I wanted. With mixer and cups jammed under my left armpit and both hands clutching bottles I made my way out.

I realised as I approached that if the guy behind the counter smelt booze on me then that would be it. Colorado state law requires that no drink may be sold to someone who’s been drinking. Which seems counterproductive if you ask me. You drink. You want to drink more. Makes sense. But then I figure, the cigarettes probably went a long way as a deodorant. It could go fifty-fifty. I placed everything down in front of him and pulled out two twenties. The clerk looked at my money. Then at my crash course education in getting drunk. Then at the kids outside the window. Then back at me.

We drive out to Horsetooth reservoir and the mountains’ silhouette reflects in the water like two jaws of oblivion. Park up close to the shore and I walk a few feet away. I place the cups down on the ground, get on my knees and start pouring. I’m on the third cup when one of the guys asks me: “What is that? Vodka?”

I laugh. “This is Gin.”

“Never had it.”

I pass him one. He smelt it and looked pleasantly surprised.

“What you’re smelling is citrus and berry blended into something that far surpasses vodka.”

He sipped it. Then he drank it.

At some point the music came out and we drank and we danced, these nameless adolescences and me, finding out where a night can go. I broke out the Italian lemon lacquer a little while later and we kicked into a different gear. We sat together and we talked. They told me what universities they’d applied too. They told me, an expatriate, how scared they were of drifting apart and being alone somewhere new. I told them that this whole time had come about by taking a chance on something new. They seemed happy with that. They asked what I do. I can’t remember what I told them.

Morning stopped being benign and became a malignant creeping possibility. They all passed out in the car, sat up right, sleeping their way to a hangover. I stood by the gentle shore, devoid of tide. She joined me for a smoke.

“Don’t feel like sleeping?” She asked.

I shook my head.

“You?”

She shook her head.

“I wanted to talk.”

“Yeah?’

“Why did you help us out?”

I took another drag. It didn’t feel good. Just stale.

“I don’t know. Maybe I just wanted to help you guys out. You remind me of me back then. Depending on a good Samaritan for a good time.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Just did.”

She grinned.

“You know what I mean.”

“Go for it.”

She took a moment and breathed out smoke. I wonder how she felt then. What she tasted.

“You could have just given us the drinks. We would have paid you. But you wanted to come with us.”

“That a bad thing?”

“God, no. I had such a fun night.”

“Me too.”

“I guess, I just wanted to know why. You could have gone to a bar, why did you break the law with a bunch of seniors?”

I looked at her. She looked nothing like the people I split my love between, all desired and none romanced. But she was here, and maybe I could mistake her for being kind instead of nice.

I kissed her. And I felt older. She must have sensed it because she broke away.

“What are you missing?” She asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I want to help you. But I don’t think I can.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

“Is it?”

“Maybe.”

We sat in silence for a bit. Her feet under her knees, my jacket over her shoulders and her head nestled in my chest. The sky twisted into light.

“You ever heard of Johnie’s Coffee Place?”

She tilted her head up. Her mouth on my neck.

“No.” She said.

“Once upon a time in LA, there’s a coffee house.”

“Called Johnie’s?”

“Called Johnie’s. Except they don’t sell any coffee.”

“What?” She laughed.

“I know right? Because it’s a movie set. It’s in a bunch of movies. Big Lebowski, Reservoir Dogs, American History X, even a Tom Petty music video. See, it got bought by a production company as a set. Hasn’t served coffee in years.”

“That’s so cool.”

“Yeah.”

I paused. I breathed.

“That’s how I feel.”

“Huh?”

“I feel like I’ve got all this going for me. Like cult movies and landmark status. But I’m not even what I am. I’m a coffee shop that doesn’t sell coffee.”

Unsurprisingly, I met my first devil that morning. Only so much sin can stay bottled up before it overflows, and like flies to carrion, the devils come. The world bent a little and the air expanded and when it spoke to me, it spoke with the mouth of her. And so it sang:

Hold me close and hold me fast

This magic spell you cast

This is la vie en rose

When you kiss me heaven sighs

And though I close my eyes

I see la vie en rose.

When you press me to your heart

I'm in a world apart

A world where roses bloom

So give your heart and soul to me

And life will always be la vie en rose.

It stood slowly, stretched, yawned like a cat in new skin. Her face looked at me like it had last night. But this time something was kindled inside her, coiled like barbed wire. An infernal passenger.

“It’s me or the Big Guy, pal, and what fuckin’ use is he to you?”

“Come again?” I said.

“Oh, I plan to.” It grinned. “Everything’s got a price. Our offers better.”

“What the fuck are you on about?”

“Misses S, Misses O, Misses U, Misses L.” It sang again.

“I don’t reckon you want a taste of mine.” I said. “A little sour.”

“You’re dead wrong, gorgeous.” It grinned quick and fast like the flick of a switchblade knife. “You’re going to blow the competition out of the water.”

“How’s that?” Maybe it was the dawning hangover, the lingering drunkenness, but the devil started making sense.

“Gods, kings and chicken wings, baby. We get you, we win it all. You’re the double or nothing, kid. Time to draw down. Treaties to be signed, judgement to be passed. Come on, kid. It’s us or Him. All of creation’s been waiting for this moment.”

“For me?”

“Yeah” She said, her voice soft and her own. “For you, what’s the worst hangover?”

“It’s you.” I said.

“Who else?”

She laughed and somewhere a car backfired and the dust kicked up under my feet and I ran and I ran and I ran.

Turns out you can’t just run everywhere. After a mile or so their car caught up and pulled up alongside me. I was bent double, retching, rasping breaths. The girl looked at me, eyes dark but not golden-red like the devil had been. Maybe it’d let her be. Maybe it was rooted in my soul. Maybe I’m fucking nuts. Some mercy she had that I didn’t drove her to open the door. Despite the terror of earlier, I crawled in and lay my head on her lap. We drove like that for a long time. They dropped me off where I’d found them in town, without a word. Some not too distant part of me felt offended she hadn’t even had the decency to ask for my number. Then I realised I’d seduced her, cried to her, and then ran in abject fear away from her. So, all in all, about as good a date as any.

When I got back my roommate was awaiting me as she usually did. With eggs burning and a stern look of pity.

“You actually look pretty good considering you didn’t make it home last night.” She said.

“Thanks, I thought I looked like shit.”

“You do, but I know that’s the best you can manage.”

I let myself fall into the embrace of the sofa. Like all good friends, the sofa was old, worn and just a little dirty. My roommate came over and slid a plate in front of me. She returned to the stove and I remembered how much I like seeing her walk away.

“I retract that bit where I thanked you for saying I looked good.”

“On what grounds?” She chuckled.

“The grounds you’re a dick.”

She turned to me, pan in hand and gestured to the omelette. My life was in her hands. I needed those goddamn eggs to survive.

“I retract that bit where I called you a dick.”

She smiled, victorious, and flipped the omelette up once and went back to cooking.

“So, how was your night?”

“Fine.”

“Wasn’t Greg coming over?” I ask, all innocent like I didn’t know and plan my long night excursion accordingly.

“Yes, he came over.”

“Just fine?” Maybe this is the part where she says half way through their mediocre sex she thought of her famous writer friend and realised her undying love for me. She sighed.

“Greg’s just Greg, you know?”

“Ah, I get you.” Greg is French for shit.

“I love him,” Lame. “But…” Not so lame. “He really annoys me sometimes. He talks through movies, he never answers his phone and he can’t even spell omelette. He does it with a fucking ‘I’.”

“Sounds pretty bad.”

“It’s not. It’s just infuriating.”

“Sounds like you need someone better.”

“I don’t, he’s just annoying.”

“Sounds like-“

“It’s just a thing, dude. I don’t have to break up with him just because sometimes he rubs me the wrong way.”

“Sure, you’re totally right.” You’re so wrong, you’re the most false anyone has been, could be, or will be. You are infinitely wrong, for all eternity, no one shall crest the pinnacle of wrongness, which is you. Date me, for the love of God, please.

‘Here, eat and sleep then maybe you won’t feel like death.”

“Thanks, you’re the best.” Jokes on you, I feel like this all the time.

-

In my midday sleep, I dreamt. I dreamt the angel came to talk. The angel was twelve feet tall. Slim and long, four arms sprouting from a golden cuirass inlaid like a tapestry with virtue and glory. Shoulder guards shaped like roaring lions and a helmet encasing the terrible beauty beneath. Four thin white wings beat steady, like a heart. So fine and fragile a drop of water might wash them away. They could caress chimes and not make a sound. Fury and glory in equal measure, this knight of God. The angel spoke and I heard my mother. My best friend. My first love. I heard music. It filled my head and it sounded like trumpet fanfare and harpsichord and laughter and song. I heard the promise of happiness, like the smell of bread and the feel of bare feet on warm grass. Memories of swimming in summer and wandering in winter.

The metal mask unfurled, like a blooming flower and red light spilled forth. The glow bathed me in painless fire and when I awoke she was gone. And all I could think was who could possibly deserve such a home to rest.

ACT II

Fuck Greg. Who cares if you’ve known her since you were six? I know her now and I have one more novel than you do. That’s two-nil to me mate. She’d left my mail on the table when she went to work. I woke up five hours after that. As a rule, I don’t read mail. Because I don’t live in the 1800’s and I have a phone. But I made an exception. The perfumed stationary was just too enticing. I opened it and looked at the RSPV card in my hand.

Michelle and Hardev

Cordially Invite You To Their Big Day

12/07/17

Long Furlong Barn, Hove, BN13 3XN

What the hell kind of name is Long Furlong. Who says long twice? I get it, you have a barn and it’s fucking long. Michelle and I had once drunk too much to drive home. So we slept in the back seat of her Ford, half a mile from my house. It rained and we breathed hot and heavy. The windows steamed up and we couldn’t see anything but each other. When we woke the next day, half naked and in each other’s arms, we climbed out into the car park. We stretched, looked at each other, and laughed. Then we went back into the pub. We slept together, we drank together and none of our friends knew. They couldn’t see through the steamy glass and we couldn’t see them. We had each other. She told me the pain of falling in love, and not wanting kids or a wedding or a home. Now she’s got two out of three.

Call me Nancy Drew, because I’m a goddamn detective. Why would she send me an invite to her wedding after all we shared? Because she wanted me there. Why would she want me there? To save her from what she told me all those years ago she didn’t want. It’s a cry for help. She still loves me.

To celebrate this, I went to the bar. Nothing like a sticky floor and watered down beer to remind you that the past really is a better place. A regular guy might think, ‘slow down there, don’t you know the past is seen through rose tinted glasses?’ Naturally, which is why when I show up at the wedding, ‘The Graduate’ style, I’ll be starting something new with an old flame. Completely different set of rules with that. Clearly nostalgia is on my side with this one. She can keep Greg, I’m in love. Naturally, before I’d finished my first pint my agent sensed me being happy. So he called to put a stop to it.

“What’s up daddio?”

“More of the same. You?”

“Everything’s cool topside my friend.”

“Okay.”

Silence.

“Anyway, my brother, I’m looking out across the sea, I’m a lighthouse dude and your book, your vision, is the ship I’m searching for.”

“That’s kind of poetic actually.” I have to admit, I didn’t think he had it in him. He laughed.

“Maybe we should ‘Freaky Friday’ man, I’ll be the writer and you can be the agent.”

“The Lindsay Lohan movie?”

“Abso-make them wait for it-lutley. Anyway, I’ve got to go, but first thing next week I see some more pages, okay homie?”

“Sure.”

“Awesome, keep it real!” He hung up.

I had no intention of writing that much, or anything, for him. If I’d spent more time by the bar counter maybe I would have been drunk enough to tell him that. Next time, if I don’t eat anything, I’ll definitely be able to get drunk enough. I wish I could stumble home but instead I’m walking sober like some kind of savage. I looked around the park, the grass all yellow from the heat, the pavement smooth and new, and a familiar face. My stomach lurches with the thought of another hellike conversation. But she walks like a mortal, a regular person, right up to me. Toe to toe.

“It’s you.” She said. She may have even been happy about it.

“If you say so.” I said.

She brushed her hair back with the heel of her hand. Examined her shoes. I inspected the sky. Time passed. Eventually we looked at each other.

“What are you up to then?” I asked.

“Oh, I was actually just heading to the library.” She smiled and her shoulders rose in joy. What a nerd.

“Nice.” I said, meaning something else entirely. Then, to not seem awkward I said: “Do you have a paper or something?”

She shuffled a little, a little coy and a little embarrassed.

“No, I just really like books.” She laughed. “Being surrounded by them, the sun coming through the windows so you can see all the dust that flies around when you turn a page. That kind of thing. I go quite a lot.”

I nodded, remembering what it was like when I first wrote. I wondered how many libraries in how many countries had copies of my breakout novel. Too many probably. I should really call my agent back. Tell him I quit by way of self-immolation. Can’t disappoint anyone with a new bestseller if you’re on fire.

“Would you like to come?”

“Sorry?”

“Come. To the library. I like reading in company. You get to be not alone and also not talk to people. Which is my jam. I’m not very good at talking unless I’ve been drinking. Not that I have today. That’s not why I’m able to talk to you like a regular person. Actually, I’m not doing a great job of that am I?” She laughed again and I coughed. She grew silent.

‘Maybe next time?” I said.

“Yeah, sure, don’t worry about it.” And with that she sidestepped me without meeting my gaze and strode onwards. What a freak.

*

I’d called ahead and heard her voice for the first time in years.

“Did you get my invite?”

“I did.”

“Are you coming?”

“I am.”

“What day?”

“The Wednesday before.”

‘Time?”

“Four thirtyish.”

“Heathrow?”

“You betcha.”

She exhaled. It sounded like she was trying not to laugh for joy.

“I’ll pick you up.”

“Can’t wait.”

After we’d hung up I couldn’t stop thinking about how we sounded the same. Just like we used to. Deadpan, but built on a foundation of love. We would speak like acquaintances. We would smile because we were the only ones who knew the lie.

The flight was actually pleasant. I was blessed with two things; the ability to sleep anywhere and everything else about me. So I was asleep before take-off. I read, I watched the inflight movie, I slept, I listened to music. I did not write. I thought of her. Her hair used to smell like peaches. She didn’t fear God. She was afraid of snakes. She liked swans, she hated pizza. I once called myself hers. I didn’t notice the cold when I got off the plane. I didn’t notice how familiar the air was. I thought of her. She was leaning against a pillar when I came out of arrivals. Black jeans and a denim shirt. Her hair was a little longer than I remembered. Or maybe shorter? Or maybe it had been long at the beginning and she’d gotten it cut. I don’t recall. She sprang towards me and grabbed me. She spun and I spun too and we held each other like old lovers do. Where the love never goes away so you never have to ask how the other feels. She pressed herself close and said, ‘I’ve missed you’.

She still drove that crappy purple Ford. The same car as before. It smelt different.

“Dog?”

“Huh?”

“Did you get a dog?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah. A Saint Bernard.”

“Yeah?”

“Her name is Zeus.”

I laughed.

“Spectacular.”

“How’s life across the sea?”

“Eh.”

“Eh?”

“Once enough people tell you your work is a revelation, anywhere can get a little… eh.”

“Well, I never did say…”

“Don’t you dare.”

She giggled and my chest became a vacuum.

“I did read it though.”

“What did you think?”

She took her eyes off the road and looked at me. Nothing but compassion and pride in those eyes.

“I think that I was right about you.”

She asked me if my suit was in my luggage. I told her I didn’t know if there was a theme so I hadn’t got one yet. She took the next left and we went to dress me to the nines. She looked at fabrics. I looked at her

“What do you think?”

“Wool?” I asked her.

She looked at me like I’d blasphemed which maybe, to her, I had.

“Linen, you moron.” She said without rancour.

She picked me out a pale blue suit. A colour of summer and love and weddings. I stepped out of the changing booth, feeling like I could make the whole world swoon. She gave me one up-down gaze, never lingering.

“You still don’t suit waistcoats.”

“Too skinny.” I smiled.

“Too bony.” She grinned.

I shed the waistcoat and, on second thought, the tie. She agreed. She would have killed me if I’d decided not to go all debonair for her. She gave me another once over. Something tugged at the edge of her lips. Not a smirk. Something she couldn’t permit to be seen.

“You love sick dog you.” The devil said.

“You’re the one who keeps following me around. If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’ve got the vapours.” I waved at my face like a fan.

“I do love you. We all do. You’re our salvation. Do you know what that means to us? To those who once called heaven home and now can never reach that splendour again? We forgot what hope was, until you.”

“And she’s my hope.”

The devil smiled.

“So she is.”

The day of the wedding, she called for me. She didn’t send a bridesmaid or a text. She came out into the half-filled barn, took my hand and led me to her room.

“You okay?” I asked, hoping the answer was no.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m good. Just…”

“Just what?”

She breathed in. She sighed.

“It’s just a very big day.”

“Yes, it is.” I said, stepping closer.

“I just need to talk to someone. Talk to you. My friends are his friends and I just need someone to talk to that won’t talk to him. I don’t want to disappoint him.”

“I can see that.”

“Remember how we used to get ice creams after school?”

“You hated how I bit into them.”

“It’s not how you eat an ice cream.”

“Then why is it called eating?’ I murmured, our lips inches apart.

She kissed me, and immediately I felt her regret it. She broke away.

“Don’t freak out.” I said.

“Holy shit.”

“Don’t freak out.”

“Do not tell him this happened. Not a word. That was a mistake.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“What?”

“You sent me that invite, after everything we were to each other. This was the reason.”

“That’s why you came?”

I didn’t say anything.

“That’s why you came.”

My mouth was dry.

“Why did you invite me?”

Her face said it all. But she said it anyway.

“Because you’re my friend.”

The reception was lovely. Their vows were sweet and they meant them. They kissed and she was too happy to think of her mistake. To think of me. The bar, of course, was open, and I never left it. Even when I was asked to dance. I don’t remember what she looked like. They all looked like Michelle to me. When it started getting late I walked up to the newlyweds. I shook his hand, kissed her cheek, and said congratulations. I was on a flight home an hour later. I sat next to a devil that told me they were sorry and we sat in silence for the rest. I rested my head on the cool window and slept. I dreamt of an angel. The angel didn’t offer condolences. Just tried to put the fury of God in me. Forlorn lovers have no need for divinity. Their God already broke their heart.

I was waiting by the conveyer belt, thinking that if I laid down I could just move along with all the suitcases and disappear forever, when I saw her again. Once by a liquor shop. Once in a park. Once in an airport. She was standing on the tips of her toes, looking for her bag and seeing me instead. She tilted her head. Smiled. Waved. I waved back. She beckoned me over. I tapped my wrist like I had a watch. Shrugged. Then turned and left my luggage behind. Grabbed a cab and forty dollars later I was home. My roommate let me in.

“Nice suit.” She said after a time.

“Thanks.”

“What was the occasion?”

I realised I hadn’t told her anything.

“A friend’s wedding.”

“Nice.” Then. “You okay?”

“Absolutely not.”

She got up and went to the kitchen. Pan. Oil. Egg. She did this far too often for me. But every time I fucked up, there she was. Ask yourself, what is the most endearing quality anyone could have, that would make you enamoured by them. Is it the shared past you have with an old flame? The adventure of drinking with a stranger? Or is it something as pure as a friend who is kind? She is kind to me. And Greg does not need her kindness like I do. A drowning man needs air. I need her.

-

My agent called me again. And again. And again. Eventually I picked up.

“Hey, you been dodging my calls man? You’re a slick dude but don’t give me the run around.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Fantastic. So, those pages.”

“Look, I’ve had a pretty rough week. Can I get them to you soon?”

For the first time ever he was silent.

“Hello?”

“I need those pages.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” There was no jovial tone, no quip or humour. “If you did, I would be holding your manuscript in my fucking hand. Do you think I’m holding your manuscript in my fucking hand?”

“No.”

“Why am I not holding your manuscript in my fucking hand?”

“Because I didn’t send it.”

“Because you didn’t send it.” He paused again. “I’m going to call you tomorrow. You are going to tell me the idea you have for the direction of your book. There is no alternative.”

He breathed in. The devil breathed out.

“Not just that, my friend.” I could hear the sadness in its voice. “Us too. It’s time to make your choice.”

“I need more time.”

“Do you?”

I thought of her kindness. Maybe my love would be enough for her. I could just tell her. Tell her I’ve always loved her. There was never a time when I didn’t, it just took me all this time to catch up with where I’ve always been. I could hold her. Kiss her. Tell her to take a chance. Funny how the night air can make you feel like dawn won’t ever come.

“No. I don’t need more time.”

“Wednesday it is then.”

I slept and no angels came. They were quiet. I woke up alone. But I knew, that night, I wouldn’t want for company. One hundred and fifty dollars to hire a string quartet. They had to learn a little Dean Martin but it was worth it. After all, ‘everybody loves somebody’. I bought a bouquet of daffodils. I put on my best suit, which is the one Michelle picked out. I stood by the window and waited. Then, suddenly, there she was. The car pulled up outside. She got out, halfway through a laugh. She walked around and leaned in the driver’s side. She kissed Greg for a long moment. When she broke away he must have said or done something because she laughed again. He drove away and she stood waving after him. She stayed still, even after he was long gone. Sighed with joy and walked towards the apartment block door.

I backed away from the window and stayed still for a second.

“Get out.”

One of the musicians looked at me.

“What?”

“I’ve already paid you, I changed my mind. I don’t want any music.”

“You’re the boss.”

They packed up quickly and left. A few seconds later she came through the door.

“Weirdest thing, I just past, like, an orchestra on the stairs.”

“Huh. That is strange.”

“What’s with the suit and flowers? Do you have a date?”

“Something like that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me!” She said, practically jumping with excitement. She punched my arm.

“When is it?”

“Pretty soon I reckon.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you.” She smiled and kissed my cheek. “Good luck.”

I brushed her hair back over her ear with a forefinger.

“See you around.”

“See you in a bit.” She said.

I hope you don’t, I thought.

*

The bar was a bar. Like all the rest. Like every bar you’ve ever been to. They all look the same. They all taste the same.

“Another?” The barman asked.

“Sure.”

He poured me something and then mixed it with something else. He slid it over and I paid him and it was the same as the last one I had.

“You doing alright?” He asked.

“Just thinking.”

“That’s a dangerous hobby.” He smiled. “What about?”

“Silver birches.”

“The tree?”

I knocked everything I had back and left it empty on the counter.

“Yeah. The tree.”

“What about it?”

“When I was younger, my father and I would walk around this park with our dog. In the corner there was this small copse area, a little woodland. Rows and rows of silver trees. He taught me that the bark of white birch trees has a special chemical in it. It still burns, even in the rain. I used to think it was magical. The sole tree that won't ever stop. Now I think it's horrible. Not even the rain can stop the fire.”

“That is something.” The devil said.

“Trees that burn.”

“Just so.” Its eyes looked me up and down. Saw something in me that wasn’t there before. “You’re ready.”

“That I am.” I sighed. “I’m pretty tired.”

“You look it.”

“When I get to where I’m going…can I rest? Finally?”

It shook its head.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“What?”

“Heaven and Hell. They’re not places. They’re you. They’re what you bring with you. Everywhere you go. Bring hate, you get hate. Love and you get love. Envy, joy, sorrow. You get what you have.”

“I don’t understand.”

Now the devil looked sad. What a sight, to see a devil close to tears.

“No devils. No angels. No God. No Lucifer. It’s just you. It’s always been just you. There’s nothing to choose”

“That’s not possible. What about the bet?”

It shrugged.

“You wanted to feel like you mattered.”

“Bullshit. This can’t have all been in my head. I didn’t want you in my life.”

“And now you do. Give you one thing, you’re a writer. You love dramatic irony.”

“I didn’t make you up. I don’t believe you.”

“I’m sorry?” The bartender said.

“No. Come back, bring it back, I’ve chosen.”

“Bring who back? What are you talking about?”

“I choose hell. I choose the devil. Bring it back, I don’t want to be here anymore, bring it back.”

The bartender looked at me, a little look of worry on his face.

I closed my eyes. I felt rage. I felt cheated. I felt sadness. And just like that it was gone and I was empty.

Outside, the bar the air is cool. I light a cigarette and start walking. I move down the street and I see her again. They’ve pasted over half of her face with a new poster. It might be for deodorant or it might be for a car. In the morning, she’ll be gone, and all anybody will remember is that they can drive and smell just like in the big picture all the way up there. I stare for a while, her one remaining eye, gleaming and green, staring back. I wonder if I’ll miss her when she’s gone. But, of course I will. I’m me. I get a call.

“Yeah?” I slur.

“Do you have it?” My agent asks.

And I’ve got nothing to say.