sit down next to Lucky, busying myself with the refreshments. He’s in a trance staring at his fish. I’m not sure he even notices I’m back.
I nudge him, handing him a beer. “I made coffee too if you want.”
He takes the beer from me, twists the cap off, and swallows half of it in three big gulps, never taking his eyes off his cold-blooded friend.
I shrug. “Beer it is, then.” I sip at mine, knowing that two drunk people in this house would be a really bad idea. We already made that mistake, and I don’t want to make it again.
“I took him to the vet,” Lucky says. “They said there’s nothing they can do. He’s just old.”
“That sucks. How old is he, anyway?” I want to open the bag of pretzels, but I feel like that would be insensitive right now.
“He’s six. The Internet says they can live for thirty years, but my vet says in his experience they only live a year or two. So I guess six is pretty good.”
“Yeah, that’s great, especially when you’re kicking it old school.” I smile and point my beer bottle at the bowl.
“Old school?”
I immediately feel like an asshole. I didn’t mean to, but I pretty much just told him that he’s killing his fish by keeping it in a little bowl.
My smile falters and turns into something more like a grimace. “I just meant . . . you know, at the dentist, he’s got that big old rig with all the different fish in it and bubbles going and that little treasure chest and skeleton in the bottom . . .” I take another slug of my beer and go ahead and open the bag of pretzels, figuring if I stuff my mouth full of food, maybe I’ll be unable to stick my foot in there anymore.
“This is just what I use to transport him around in. Normally he’s in a bigger tank alone. I never wanted him to get sick or hurt. Other fish could be bullies and hurt him or make him sad.”
I nod, as if this makes all the sense in the world. “I gotcha.” Should I be worried about Lucky’s mental health? He’s talking about this fish like it’s a kid going to grade school or something.
The room falls completely silent, except for the sounds of me eating. Normally, I don’t notice myself chewing, but it’s like I have a microphone up to my mouth. Every crunch of pretzel I make is like the beginnings of an earthquake. I take another swig of my beer to try to dampen the noise.
“I could use another.” Lucky puts his empty bottle on the table gently, his eyes never leaving the fish bowl.
I stare at the empty bottle. On a good day, I would happily get any of my teammates drunk as a skunk, but tonight I’d better not. If there were ever a night for sobriety, this is it. I fear what might come out of my mouth if my lips were loosened by alcohol.
“I’ve got something better. I’ll be right back.”
I go into the kitchen and dump the rest of my beer into the sink. Pulling out two mugs from the cabinet, I fill them both with black coffee. I’m pretty sure we’re going to need to be sober for what’s coming next.
Back in the living room, I find Lucky tapping on the glass. His fish isn’t swimming anymore. I move across the floor quickly, setting the coffee mugs down on the table. I sit really close to him and lean in. “Is he okay?”
Lucky doesn’t say anything. He just keeps tapping on the glass.
I take his finger and hold it away from the bowl, enveloping it in both of my hands.
“What are you doing?” he asks, looking at me.
“Shush.” I point at the bowl with our hands to get his focus off me. “Let him be. Give him some peace and quiet.”
“What?”
I turn my head to look at Lucky. His face is so close, I can literally see lines of pain etched into his skin. He looks twenty years older today than he did on Friday.
I try to put into words what I’m thinking as I hold his hand in mine. “In my last moments, I wouldn’t want somebody banging a drum next to my head. I’d want peace and quiet. Serenity. Life is chaotic enough. We deserve something soft in the end.”
It’s not what I gave Charlie, and that tortures me every day. It probably