From Her to Eternity

By G.C. Collins

A surreal conversation in a bar with Lucy's doppelganger

Lucy's sister is sitting just two barstools away. She’s so close that I know it’s just someone who looks like her but I need to be careful. If I think her name, all of the lights will go out. My martini is almost gone.

​

"Clive," I say, loud enough for her to hear. "Can you make me that Glass of God from last night."

"Certainly.” Twenty-four bars on the ship but Clive’s was my favorite. I liked his royal face and keen eyes, but mostly I liked that he knew to stir, not shake, martinis.

​

"Sorry to bother you," says the man next to Lucy's sister's doppelganger. She's looking right through me, and I almost stop breathing. Even their eyes are the same.

​

I refocus on the man. He's wearing a wrinkled, light blue linen shirt unbuttoned to his sternum. His voice was soft, like chocolate shavings on a grocery-store-brand cake. I hate him. "Yes?"

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"Did you just order a Glass of God? What even is that?"

"You haven't heard of that? What, did you just start drinking yesterday?" Christ, I can’t help myself.

​

"My wife and I aren't huge drinkers," he says, cautiously. She’s not gonna stay around if I keep this up but I can’t help it.

"It's the nightcap of nightcaps. A touch of brandy, Calvados, absinthe, and sweet vermouth. Make sure you add a smidge of lemon, ideally saline solution if you have it, and be sure to stir it. Serve it up and finally – garnish with a Luxardo cherry." I have somehow slunk over to the seat next to her without even noticing it. "I think you would love one." I turn to Clive, who's putting the finishing touches. "Clive, another for this beautiful young lady."

​

Clive smiles. A true friend on this godforsaken ship. He knows everything about me, yet he’s still on my side.

"I'll just try yours, honey," says the husband and my skin crawls.

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"You two been married long?"

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Even through the multi-martini translucence, I could see his lip twitching. He is starting to hate me as much as I hate him. He opens his mouth but lovely sister of Lucy talks for him. "We got married last year, actually. Napa Valley."

"Wine country! You must have looked gorgeous. Ah, thank you Clive." The drinks sit nicely in their wide, curved coupe glasses. "Tell me what you think. Cheers!"

​

Our glasses clink, ringing out like tuning forks. The husband is staring daggers. "Oh my God.” she says, meaning it. “It smells exactly like my grandparents street at the end of summer, when the apple trees are just overflowing. Babe, you gotta try this."

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The husband holds the cocktail like a prissy little bitch, wrinkling his nose. "It just smells like licorice."

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"Clive, you got a gun or something back there? This guy can't appreciate your art!" A laugh to soften the threat.

"Please, Scott, keep me out of this." He holds his hands up in mock surrender while the husband's eyes bore deeper into my skull.

​

She’s laughing, though. It would be just like Evelyn to come back like this.

She asks, "Sorry, what did you say?"

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"Oh!" I sip my cocktail and recover. The lights were still on. "I was saying, it reminds me of my wife's childhood home. Barbecues in the back, the ocean wafts through inland, and it's the best smell in the world."

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"Oh yeah? Where's your wife now?" The oaf speaks.

I have been waiting all night for this. I lock eyes and say, "She's dead."

​

Oh, the horror on their faces. Even Clive pitches in with a sad, slow head shake. An effective fib on my part. Lucy the wife is not dead, just divorced. But Evelyn the sister is buried deep inside of my head.

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"I loved her so much." I am obsessed. "She would have loved this cruise." I see her in every woman who even looks at me. "She would have loved this drink, too." I’m so tired.

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"I'm so sorry to hear that," she says.

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"Honey, let's go, we got an early start tomorrow." And just like that, he pulls her away from me.

​

"Bye, Evelyn," but they're already outside, on the promenade. I hear her voice, saying something like, how did you know, how did you know? but just I close my eyes and until it goes away.

​

A beat, then two. Clive is a maestro. "Are you okay, Scott?"

Three, four. "I'm okay. Just a beer, please."

G.C. Collins is a writer living in the Mountain West region of the US.