Michael's Arc

Chapter 1 of 9

Michael was twenty-three years old and had never once been surprised by a Friday night. He knew the walk from his front porch to the bar by heart. Six blocks, one crosswalk, the same three friends already saving him a stool. His house sat quiet behind him, porch light on, red door locked. He liked his life. That was the problem. Inside the bar, the counter was crowded with people who laughed at the same jokes he did. Jake wore a black tank top almost identical to Michael's. Danny had the same haircut. They ordered the same beer without asking. Michael slid onto his stool and someone clapped him on the shoulder before he'd said a word. "Same as always?" the bartender asked. "Same as always," Michael said, and hated how easy it was. He scanned the room. Every face was one he already knew, or one that could have been. Easy smiles. Loose shirts. Guys who surfed on weekends and girls who dated guys who surfed on weekends. Michael had been meeting the same person, in slightly different bodies, for three years. He wanted someone who would argue with him. Someone who didn't own a single tank top. Someone who made him nervous. Jake was mid-story about a bachelor party. Danny was laughing before the punchline. Michael set his beer down. "I'm out," he said. Jake blinked. "We just got here." "I know." "Where are you going?" Michael didn't have an answer. He only knew he couldn't hear the punchline again. He paid his tab, stepped past the lanterns hanging from the bar's awning, and stood on the sidewalk in the dark. He pulled out his phone. He scrolled past every name that would end up back at that same counter. He kept scrolling until he found a number he'd saved months ago and never used. A coworker's cousin. She ran a book club in the back room of a coffee shop on the other side of town. He remembered being told, kindly, that he would hate it. Wine, arguments about dead Russians, no music. Nobody like him. He typed: Is your book club still meeting Thursdays? The reply came fast. Yes. Why? Michael looked back at the bar. Through the open front, he could see Jake miming something with both hands and Danny doubled over. The stool beside them was already filled by someone who looked like him. He typed back: Can I come this week? Three dots. Then: You won't like it. I know, he wrote. That's the point. He put the phone away and started walking home. The porch light was still on when he got there. He locked the red door behind him and, for the first time in a long while, did not know what his week was going to look like.