trivia(l)
Emily Davis
I don’t even look around on my way inside because I didn’t want to look like a newbie; it wasn’t my first time meeting you here for trivia. I had already paused outside the bar for a deep breath because I wanted to make sure no one knew I was nervous. I kept walking down the corridor until I reached the bar with the lipped edge that made it both difficult to slide drinks off and awkward to rest your arms. I dangled mine haphazardly by my side, hoping that the voice I heard coming up behind me wasn’t Leo. The smell of musty vintage-store corduroy confirms it, though, and I know he’s walking behind me—walking to you. I hear his boots on the ground, unequal but sure, walking with either hesitation or a slight limp. His confidence is not in question, but it wouldn’t be for me if I owned the place. I still can’t believe he doesn’t have hair.
A voice snaps me back to attention—“Brooklyn Lager?”—about the only two words I could hear right now other than your name. I smile feebly, as confidence hasn’t ever been my strong suit. I am more of a hearts kind of girl. I laugh at my own joke, and slide my real card across the bar clumsily, forgetting about the lip that I had just so recently clocked. I close my eyes for a second, knowing that I’ll open them to you talking to him, with jokes of your own, his hand touching your shoulder: a tacit agreement that you’ll reunite in a few hours when you both have had a few drinks. I open them to see him walking back by me—unknowingly—smirking.
You don’t see me immediately because your eyes are still fixed on the door as he fades beyond the frame. I try to break your mesmerized glance with a wave, a “hey, long time no see”, and a smirk of my own to make it seem like I haven’t spent the last two hours missing you. You laugh it off and glance at the door one more time, noting it has only been a few hours. I swallow my follow up.
You picked a table in the back room. The rooms get progressively darker, facilitated by both the paint tone and the burnt-out light bulbs. It smells like cigarettes in the corner and there’s a rough spot on the table right where my knee keeps hitting. The table’s a bit too short but I couldn’t ask your friend on the end to move over a bit. If I’m anything, I’m “go with the flow.” The door to the patio opens every few minutes, as indecisive patrons go in and out as they choose their poison: the 28-degree January night versus the promise of another drink. Every time the wind brings in a gust of cold air, and it chills you, and you pull your scarf further over your formerly bare shoulders. I offer you my jacket, but you politely decline.
I try not to stare at the lace that’s crossing your chest. You look beautiful, I say. Love the outfit, adding to divert how real that compliment felt. You smile and shrug it off, saying it’s nothing but thank you. I see you look down and I keep my eyes on yours until your glance comes back to equatorial. A million thoughts flood my head—a million things that I’ll never say out loud. I slide my phone out to text my friend the thought that keeps bubbling up. “Dude, I’m so in love with this girl.” And she says, “I can tell! I wonder if she knows.” I think for a second. What use is it to be honest if love is trivial?
Emily Davis is a Southern-born queer writer who loves all types of art and literature, from poems to short stories to longer works of fiction. She is a healthcare provider that sees her empathy as a strength in connecting with patients, especially those who have been historically marginalized. She feels emotions deeply and loves completely. Emily desires to write about love and loss from a less dramatic lens, focusing on the small moments when we realize we are happy or we are hurting.
