The shrill ringing of a cell phone could be heard throughout her tiny apartment, perched on top of her huge coffee table, the first piece of furniture they bought together. She peered at the telephone number flashing on the screen, a small picture of him accompanying it as well. She could recite that number from memory if anyone asked her too even though she hadn’t called it in a long time. She could feel her heart beating wildly in her chest, a result of the name flashing on her phone’s screen.
Her eyes traveled to the blinking light on the DVD player.
2:00 AM.
2. 0. 0. A. M.
Two in the morning.
Closing time.
With a roll of her eyes she muttered, “Some things never change.”
She didn’t answer, just kept letting it ring, even though her fingers were itching to put him out of his misery.
I recognized your number,
It’s burned into my brain.
Felt my heart beating faster,
Every time it rang.
Some things never change,
That’s why I didn’t answer.
She could see him now, sitting in some dive bar, a glass of Johnny Walker Red in his hand, some cute blond chatting in his ear while he gazes at her through red rimmed eyes. Some country song probably blaring from a jukebox in the background. She could almost smell the smoke burning from midnight cigarettes. She imagined a big scruff of a man going to all the tables, telling them it was closing time. She imagined him saying, “I’m Justin Timberlake,” in that way that he does when he doesn’t get his way.
Trace probably didn’t answer either. He’s probably stranded with no one to take him home. But still she didn’t answer.
Even if Trace did answer he probably still would have called because on nights like these she’s always his last call.
I bet you’re in a bar,
Listening to a country song.
Glass of Johnny Walker Red,
With no one to take you home.
They're probably closing down,
Saying, “No more alcohol.”
I bet you’re in a bar,
‘Cause I’m always your last call.
Her phone beeped with a, “New Message,” so loud she jumped a little out of her seat on the couch. A voicemail from him. His typical, “Baby, I still love you,” with a few slurs and hiccups thrown in and a cough if the bar was smoky enough. All these months apart, all these late night drunken phone calls and he still hadn’t uttered what she truly wanted to hear.
A simple, “Baby, I’m sorry.”
She didn’t need to check her messages to know exactly what he said or more importantly, what he didn’t say. It would be so easy for her to forgive him, her heart still belonged to him but some things just don’t change. He never says he loves her unless he’s drunk and then it doesn’t mean anything at all. She wasn’t his girl anymore, he had saw to that, so she didn’t need this torture from him. This wondering if he was going to be okay when he had ripped her heart in two.
I don’t need to check that message,
I know what it says.
“Baby, I still love you.”
Don’t mean nothing when there’s whiskey on your breath.
That’s the only love I get.
So if you’re calling…
I bet you’re in a bar,
Listening to a cheatin’ song.
Glass of Johnny Walker Red,
With no one to take you home.
They’re probably closing down,
Saying, “No more alcohol.”
‘Cause I’m always your last-
Call me crazy
I think maybe
We’ve had our last call.
It was one of those nights for him, where the pain was so strong and his guilt ate at him until he was nothing but a broken man. It was hard for him without her, realizing how much he truly loved her too late and after she was long gone. He used to go home to her but now the dark nights and empty house clutched his broken heart in a vice until he felt it might burst and he had to get out. The only thing that killed his pain was the whiskey in his glass, his liquid courage, that made him brave enough to call her.
His blue eyes surveyed the darkened smoke filled bar, pulling his hat down tighter, hoping he wouldn’t be recognized. Tonight he just wanted to be a man from Tennessee, drowning his sorrows away. He ran his finger along the rim of his glass of Johnny Walker Red as a cheating song played on the jukebox in the back of the bar, just another reminder of why he was alone and she was gone. The smoke from other people’s cigarettes swirled around him, enchanting him in a way it shouldn’t, reminding him of her even more, that he had to choke back a sob as utter despair spread through his very being.
His boys had left him long time ago after realizing that he wasn’t in a partying mood. Trace had been the last to leave, he was always the last, a cute redhead perched precariously on his arm as he stumbled out of the bar after making sure he was okay. He had nodded and put on a good show but he would never be okay without her.
He took a swig of his whiskey, fire burning his lungs but it still didn’t quench the pain in his heart. He stood up clumsily, teetering back and forth until he was able to steady himself. His hand dove into his jacket pocket, fumbling with his cell phone, giving up when he couldn’t retrieve it. She wouldn’t answer anyways if she saw his name.
He ran his hand over his face before shaking his head, trying to shake away the dizziness he felt when he stood up. He stumbled his way to the payphones by the restrooms, digging in his pocket for change. Just one call. Hope spread through him like wildfire, just like every other time he got the courage to call her. It wasn’t until his finger dialed her number that the fear gripped him. He should know by now that she wouldn’t answer.
I bet you’re in a bar,
It’s always the same old song.
That Johnny Walker Red,
By now it’s almost gone,
But baby, I won’t be there,
To catch you when you fall.
I bet you’re in a bar,
‘Cause I’m always your last call.
“The number you have reached is no longer in service. Please hang up and try again.”
