It didn't matter how many times I spoke to Amber, the butterflies never went away. She always sat in the same corner of the bar, always dressed in the same leather jacket and leggings, her jet-black hair always slick back. She wore mascara that formed cat eyes, and she kept her skin almost ghostly pale. She always toyed with her necklace when she was nervous while her other hand ran a finger around the rim of her margarita glass. Every single time I saw her she got there right at seven thirty, and every single night, no matter what I tried, she ended up going home with Paul Bosman. Not me.
I think that must have been my eighth time trying. I'd tried corny openers, tried to talk about her interests, even went for straight compliments. Nothing worked, and I knew the reason. Amber was out of my league, and it wasn't even close. I knew it was hopeless, and I definitely felt that way, but what choice did I have? On June 16, 2017, there were four thousand six hundred and eighty-three of them. Some would be easy to talk too, others near impossible, but one way or another, I'd keep on trying until I won them all over.
On that particular try, I sat in the corner opposite her. I faced away from her, but if she looked at me she'd probably see the back of my head poking over the booth. I'd gone shopping that morning, and dressed as far from my normal self as possible. I wore black nail polish on one finger in each hand, dyed my hair black, and kept my wallet on a chain.
"The one and only benefit," I thought, "Of all this shit is this will all be gone when I wake up tomorrow."
For the time being I was just waiting. The bartender, a woman named Chrissy, she was on my side, and she was pulling every string she could to get Amber to talk to me.
"Tonight," she'd suggested that morning, "We're gonna try to get her to come to you. She doesn't like it when desperate guys come after her, and honestly, I smell the stink all over you. You're desperate, and it's a turn off. Let's try it my way. Try to look as appealing to her as possible, and I'll send her a drink, get her looking in your direction, ok? All you've gotta do is sit there."
So that was the plan we went with, and I was bored out of my mind. I couldn't stop my fingers from playing with the wallet chain, and no matter how I sat, the pistol's barrel at my waist dug into my thigh. The bar was called Mumble's, and for the most part it was quiet, save for the gently playing rock that, after hearing the same playlist eight days in a row, was starting to drive me to insanity. I sat there, nearly drifting off, until I heard Chrissy start talking, and when I turned, she was holding the drink and pointing me out.
I tried my best to flash a smile, and per Chrissy's instructions, I turned away just as quickly. "Let her come to me," right?
The problem with letting her come to you is that it makes you feel like a fuckin' moron to put it lightly. I sat there, drink in hand, staring at the stupid table, wondering if she was coming over or if I was just wasting my time.
It felt like the seconds turned to minutes, but finally a felt a tap on the back of my seat, and I turned to watch her brush the hair from her eyes.
"Thank you," she said, "For the drink."
I tried to flash another practiced smile, and she inched closer to me. She stretched her legs back, then draped herself over the booth.
"I really like your shirt," she said. She was trying to whisper, but the music forced her to speak more loudly, "I've seen Bloodwyrm, probably, ten times. They're my favorite band. What's your favorite song of theirs?"
I should interject here to say the eighth time was not the magic number with me and Amber, because as she slid into my booth, a smile already curling around her lips, I got to feel like a fuckin' moron again. Besides seeing their logo, I'd never even heard of Bloodwyrm, but Chrissy and Ginger promised me I had to buy the shirt and that Amber would love it. They didn't prepare me for follow up questions.
I think my mouth literally hung open. I probably drooled like the idiot I am. I think I probably tried to say something, but it clearly didn't bring her back around because the next thing I remembered I saw her short shorts walking away.
Another failure. So, I reached for the pistol, brought it to my temple, and pulled the trigger.
Every morning I had about an hour before I would hear the first knock at my door. Alley usually came first, normally in her police uniform, but occasionally Chrissy would beat her. Ginger never even came close. Most mornings we'd be lucky to see her by noon.
"On June 16th," she'd always say, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes, "I slept in ok? I can't change when I wake up."
If I can tell the God's honest truth, I think Alley likes that she rarely has to see Ginger. Most mornings Ginger's hair is unkempt and bunched with THC, and the smell of pot seemed infused into her skater-girl skin. It didn't matter how many days the four of us spent together, Alley never shook her cop reflexes, and her eyes turned angry whenever she caught a whiff of Ginger.
I was never in a rush in the mornings, and lately I'd been having a pounding headache, as I pulled on my ratty old robe. I'd thought about buying a new one, but like all that Bloodwyrm crap, it'd always be gone by the next morning. What would be the point?
I shuffled slowly towards the dark kitchen, and groaned at the idea of yet another omelet with the same three leaves of spinach I couldn't even remember buying. Despite my groaning, I twisted the stove to on, and waited for the butter to melt. I twisted it across the pan, leaving a snail trail in the butter's wake, and stifled a yawn.
I knew the sun wouldn't rise for another few minutes, and until the sky turned blue and bright, I'd never stop yawning. On the morning of June 16th I had the opposite problem Ginger had. It was one of the few mornings I actually beat the sun, which meant every single morning, I had to sit around and do nothing for half the day. I'd tried going back to bed, but sleep was a catalyst for the reset. Whenever I fell asleep or died, I'd wake up exactly where I was on the morning of June 16th, in that same tiny twin bed in my same tiny apartment. Some mornings I watched TV, but it was the exact same programming. Every. Single. Day.
I finished turning over the spinach omelet, an act I'd perfected over thousands of attempts, and went to sit at the table. I barely finished blowing the steam from the first bite when I heard Alley's knock at the door.
"Come in," I called between bites, and the police officer let herself through the door.
"Morning," she said. She stretched in the doorway, but her brown hair was pulled into a tight bun and didn't fall, "Any luck last night?"
I looked back at the plate. It wasn't just myself I let down, it was all of them, every single one that was trapped here with me, living the same day over and over. I couldn't find my voice, but I managed to shake my head.
I heard Alley sigh, a disappointment that was worse than anything she could have said, then she took a seat opposite me. "Before I forget," she said, pulling that same pistol I had the night before from her waist. She placed it on the table, and I slid it next to my plate.
"I can make you some breakfast," I said, finally looking up at those angry hazel eyes, but they stayed cold.
"We're not friends," she said simply. She rocked back in her chair before speaking again, "How many more?"
"One thousand, two hundred, and twenty-two," I said, taking another bite, "But they're only going to get harder. Married women. Girls working weird schedules. Girls like Amber, a million times out of my league."
Alley rolled her neck. It was a tick of hers, something she always did when she was deep in thought.
"That's still only a few years," she decided, "We can do it."
Alley was right. She and I weren't friends, but she knew none of us could break the loop until every single woman in Custer City joined our little timeloop, so for now, it was in her best interest to work with me.
