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Rachel
Now…
We were in a bar. A fucking bar of all places. A fucking bar!
“I don’t need a drink,” I growled, trying to tug my arm free from Mason’s hand. “I just need you to sign these papers.”
It was stupid of me to come to Dublin. I knew that now.
In my head everything had been different. I’d find Mason at the tattoo shop, at the shop I dreamed up. But that he created.
I’d walk in and he’d be there with a notepad across his knees. Drawing like he once drew me. Like he once drew on me. He’d lift his face and our eyes would meet and I’d know that I made the right decision. The right choice. Flying across an ocean. Lying to Tim. Seeing if there was still something. Seeing if maybe not everything had been lost.
Mason would walk over to me. Slowly. And then quickly. So quickly. I’d be in his arms. My mouth against his. We’d grab at each other’s clothes. Trying to get fistfuls. Fistfuls of one another. Because I’d made the right decision. The right choice.
Instead I arrived at Dublin Ink, stood at the base of the stairs and watched the man I was married to carry a half-naked chick down the stairs who was shouting at the top of her lungs exactly who Mason was. Had always been. Would always be. A womaniser. A user. A fuck boy. A playboy. A boy. An immature boy who ran from commitment. Who played games. Who would never grow the fuck up. Ever.
In the end his eyes did meet mine. They sure as fuck did. And I saw alright. I saw this was a huge fucking mistake…
“Unless this bar also sells pens, I don’t see what in God’s name we are doing here,” I shouted as Mason tugged me roughly toward the bar. “All I need is your goddamn signature, you asshole.”
It was some shithole bar like all the other shithole bars all over the world. There was a sign, as Mason had bundled me inside, that said “The Jar”. It wasn’t like reading the name of some shithole bar was high up on my priority list. The signature of some shithole person on my goddamn divorce papers was the only thing I truly cared about.
The bar stool screeched against the sticky, peanut-shell covered floor as Mason yanked it back and pushed me unceremoniously into it. The place was nearly empty given that it wasn’t even noon on a goddamn Wednesday. The only light was from the window, half covered in grime, half covered in band stickers, probably shitty, shitty band stickers, too.
I slapped the divorce papers on the counter and they immediately soaked up some liquid from the night before. Beer probably. Beer hopefully.
“It’s really nice to see you, too, Rachel,” Mason said, slouched over in the bar stool next to me. “You’re looking great. Yes, yes, thank you. I’m looking great as well, I appreciate you saying that.”
I ignored him as I rooted around in my purse.
“You say we’re married then?” he continued. “You say, calmly, of course, and politely, of course, that we got hitched all those years ago? That we’re bound in blissful matrimony? That we’re bound in the eyes of God and the church and whatever witness was present at this love ceremony of ours?”
My words hadn’t been quite so poetic. Mason had come down the stairs. Or halfway down the stairs really since he froze when he saw me. Some woman’s ass against his cheek. Some woman’s heels kicking against his cock.
I’d said, “Hello, Mason. I want a fucking divorce.”
That’s what I’d said. That’s what I’d said before finding the folder. Jamming it up toward him, frozen there on the stairs. That’s what I’d said before I truly freaked the fuck out.
“Sign it,” was what I said as Mason put that random woman down. “Sign it,” as he smiled at his co-workers, a tiny girl and a monstrous man. Both confused. Both concerned. Neither uttering a single word.
“Sign it,” I said as Mason tried to put his arm around me and said, “Let’s go talk, eh?” “Sign it!” was what I shouted as he ushered me out the door, tugging on a pair of sneakers on the way out.
“Sign it, sign it, sign it!” was what I yelled over the traffic as he pushed me down the sidewalk muttering, “Today of all fucking days…”
Half the contents of my purse was scattered across the dirty bar top before I realised that I hadn’t brought a pen for Mason to sign with. Maybe that had been the jet lag. Maybe I was so focused on remembering all the documents that it was simply an oversight.
Or maybe I’d done that stupid thing where I got a little play stuck in my head and purposefully left the pen on the hotel desk. A role for me: the one he left, but never forgot. A role for him: the idiot who was getting a second chance. The ending: there was no need for a pen. Because we still loved each other. Because we’d always loved each other. Because we could make it work. We could. This time we could…
“So tell me,” Mason said, leaning over the bar to grab a bottle of Jameson whiskey, “how was your flight?”
“I don’t want a drink,” I told him.
“I need a drink,” he said.
Just as he was rummaging around for a glass, a man came out from the back office of the bar. Attractive, tall, like an Irish Thor. He seemed surprised to see anyone there so early.
“I usually do that part, you know,” he said as he nodded at the bottle in front of Mason.
