When I first noticed my left thumb was missing, I was sitting alone in the last booth near the defective pinball machine, the one where I always sat with the sunken vinyl seats and the wobbly table. Confused, I blinked hard twice. Then I rubbed my reddened eyes.

Don’t panic, I cautioned myself, as a wave of anxiety snaked around the perimeter of my stomach, a sharp swell of adrenaline and cortisol mixed with two large whisky sours (the bartender was known to have a heavy pour). Remember, just because you see something, doesn’t mean it’s real. It was a lesson I’d come to learn the hard way by mixing Lorazepam and alcohol on a regular basis for the past four months and three days and…glancing at my watch…nineteen hours. Brief hallucinations had become all too common since that cruel day in the April rain. Not to mention the lighting was poor in the back of the bar.

No more pills, I vowed like a solemn oath. Which was easier said than done considering that every morning I swore never again, and yet every evening, well, here I was. Tentatively, I reached over with my right hand for reassurance. But there was an absence, a void, an emptiness where skin and bones once met. Simply put, my thumb had gone missing. I knew I had a problem.

“Hey, Griffin. You gonna drink that?” Jack asked as he eased into the booth opposite me.

“You’re damn right I am,” I replied with false bravado, lowering my left hand out of sight beneath the table. “I’m pacing myself.”

“Excellent idea, my friend, especially after your less than stellar performance last night. That was embarrassing. Me, on the other hand, I can hold my liquor.”

I had no idea what Jack was talking about. My shoulders hunched involuntarily.

“You okay?” Jack asked. “I’m not going to lie. You’re not looking so good.”

“I’m fine, couldn’t be better. But seriously, why is it always so cold in here? I mean, Jesus, turn on the heat already.”

“Griffin, it’s August.”

I had no answer to that. I tried to casually slip on my jean jacket to ward off the chill, struggling with the floppy denim sleeves. Embarrassed, I glanced down to see that my shirt was dangling helplessly by my side, sunken and limp, as if it no longer contained my right arm. Which, by all objective measures, it didn’t. This isn’t real, this isn’t happening, I repeated over and over as though it were a mantra. In a panic, I draped the jacket over my shoulders like a magician’s cape.

“Cool look,” Jack said. “Very dapper.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled meekly. Then I scanned the bar for any familiar faces before leaning in close. “Here’s the thing, Jack, ever since Maia broke up with me, I’ve been feeling trapped. It’s like I’m caught in a spider’s web, but the spider isn’t around.”

“Now you’re speaking in riddles.”

“I should call Maia.”

“No, you shouldn’t.”

“I can fix it.”

“No, you can’t.”

“But I need her.”

“Just stop!” Jack snapped. “You were lucky to have her in the first place. Be grateful. But everyone knew that was never going to last.

“Great, thanks. Now I feel better.”

“Here, this might cheer you up. I paid a visit to our friend in the City.”

“Dr. White?”

“Yes,” Jack said as he pulled out an unlabeled prescription bottle from his pocket. “But now that I think about it, maybe it’s time you took a little break.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I replied. “Starting tomorrow, I promise.” Then I greedily swallowed one of the little blue pills with the last dregs of my whiskey sour.

While I waited for the effects of the pill to kick in, a drowsy happiness began to seep over me, covering my head with a heavy blanket of warmth. From across the table, Jack was attempting to flirt with a woman in the booth next to us, his muffled voice drifting listlessly towards the ceiling like a lost balloon. The need to sleep was suddenly overwhelming, my eyes started to slip. Attempting to stay awake, I pulled out my phone and checked for messages, only stopping my scroll when I saw Maia’s number flash across the screen. “Do you see that?” I cried out with joy.

“See what?” Jack asked.

“It’s Maia! The missed call!”

“What? No, Griff, come on. Be serious. Look at the date. It’s from April.”

“I’ll be right back!” I said as I slid out of the booth and almost tumbled to the floor. Jesus, I’m wasted, I thought. I can barely stand. Then I looked down and saw that my left leg wasn’t there. Good grief, I moaned pitifully. First a thumb, then an arm, and now a leg! I peered nervously over my shoulder, fully expecting to find a bar full of people staring in disbelief, mouths agape at the sight of my absent limps. Luckily, no one was paying me the least bit of attention. Once more, I reminded myself that this wasn’t real; once more, I swore off the drugs. Although a lot of good that did me now as Dr. White’s little blue pill coursed through my veins, and I teetered and swayed like a drunken teenager. I tried my best to focus, to regain my composure, and then I suddenly remembered Maia’s missed call and my spirits soared. All I needed was a quiet place to talk. There was no time to lose.

Haltingly, I began to hop on one leg as a vision of Maia beckoned me down the back hallway, beyond the silver steel kegs and the crates of bottled beer, past the broken ice machine and the bathroom that didn’t lock, only stopping when I reached a shuttered door with a handwritten sign, No Entry. I hesitated for a moment. Ever since that terrible day in April, I’d feared closed doors, afraid of what I might find on the other side. I was so naive at the time, bounding up the stairwell of Maia’s building with a spring in my step, bursting with unbridled anticipation. Then, there was my gentle knock (unheard), a crack in her open bedroom door (too wide), and, ultimately, an unobstructed view of a man’s hand resting comfortably on Maia’s outer thigh where her bare skin met the edge of the blanket (heartbreaking). To add to my great shame, I’d first mumbled an apology for entering her apartment unannounced before letting loose a hail of obscenities.

The back door opened onto an alley behind the bar. The stench from two hulking green dumpsters was unbearable, the warm wet smell of decay and rusted metal. Leaning against one of the dumpsters was a busboy vaping on his break, his stained apron loosely tied around his waist. He glanced at me disinterestedly, took one last hit of the vape, then went back inside.

I was alone. I tried to grab my phone from my front pocket, only to discover that both my arms were now completely gone. This is getting ridiculous, I sighed. Still, I pressed on. I briefly contemplated bending over and clenching the phone between my teeth, but I knew I wasn’t flexible enough to reach that far with my mouth. Instead, I frantically swung my hips like I was twirling a hula hoop until the phone dropped to the ground, thankfully, not shattered.

Getting down on my one remaining knee, I leaned over and said, “Hey Siri, call Maia.”

With my heart wildly thumping, I waited as the phone rang from its tiny speaker. After the fourth plaintiff ring came and went, I looked up to the sky and began to mouth a silent prayer. Please, God. Let her answer. I’ll go clean, all of it, I promise. Just let her answer. Then, as if by divine intervention, the sun broke through the clouds, faint shafts of light burst through the gloom and lit up the alleyway, and for the first time in four months and three days and nineteen hours I heard her voice: “Hi, this is Maia…”

Immediately, I cut her off, and the words spilled forth like a swollen river that had breached its sodden banks: “Maia, it’s me,” I began in a throaty rush, as if speed would somehow overwhelm the first whiff of resistance. “Please, don’t talk, there are some things I need to say. To start with, you were right to end it. I would have done exactly the same in your shoes. I’m self-centered and needy and a lousy listener to boot, not to mention I have extremely poor posture. What’s more, I’m consumed by my own base desires, and of course I objectified you. I mean, to be fair, I’m a man for Christ’s sake, though a man diminished by drugs and alcohol and a chronic case of insecurity that has been gnawing at my insides since the first stirrings of puberty, so not exactly an ideal catch, I’ll grant you, but, hey, nobody is perfect. Ha! Which I’m sure you can attest to since you were the one caught cheating, an act of betrayal that must fill you with shame to this day, not that I blame you or anything and I certainly don’t hold a grudge, although a simple apology would have been nice, or perhaps the tiniest hint of remorse, but now I’ve gotten off track, which I’m prone to do, I know, so forgive me, my love, and really the only point I’m trying to make is that I can change, I swear. And it’s true I have some serious issues to work on, but isn’t the first step admitting that you have a problem, and despite everything I still desperately love you, so let’s let bygones be bygones as the old saying goes, and I realize this is a lot to process all at once so take your time, but, honestly, what do you think?”

Silence. I held my breath in anticipation. Then I heard a beep and a click. It was only then that I realized Maia hadn’t actually picked up. Well, so be it. I’d spoken my truth. She’ll call back when she gets the message. How could she not?

The alley door was locked from the outside, so I had to go around the block to get to the main entrance, which was easier said than done considering I only had one leg and no arms. By the time I got to the front door it was almost dark. The sun was beginning to retreat behind the horizon, the sky painted bands of deep summer red.

Wistfully, I remembered seeing a similar brilliant sky of red, one I’d shared with Maia late last summer. We’d only been together a week or so, and we’d just spent a long hot day of hiking at the local Civil War battlefield, hallowed ground now mostly used as a scenic spot for jogging and dog walking and the occasional middle-school field trip. After the hike, when we’d returned to her cluttered apartment and found her roommate gone, I was surprised when she suggested that we take a shower together. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Hadn’t she looked up at me adoringly, her blue eyes blazing beneath the shower’s weighted stream, her body glowing like the pale light of a watery moon? And me, with limited experience for a man of my age (I had recently turned thirty), smiling like a big naked dope and just happy to be there. Later, when it was time for me to leave, I was certain I would never forget this day. And yet, even then, I somehow knew it would be more important to me than to her.

When the sun had fully set, I went back inside the bar, pushing open the front door with my shoulder (thankfully, it was a push, not a pull). Happy hour was in full force and the place was packed. I had to jostle and fight my way through the mob as people kept bumping into me as if I wasn’t there. To make matters worse, my favorite booth had been taken over by a gang of drunk college students, so I took the last remaining seat at the bar. Jack was nowhere to be seen.  When I tried to order a drink, the bartender refused to make eye contact, instead chatting amiably with a young woman with streaks of pink and purple in her hair.

Why hasn’t Maia called back already? I wondered, beginning to get worried. Then it dawned on me that my phone was still in the alley. I’d left it on the ground between the dumpsters, unable to pick it up. No matter, I’m easy to find. Where else would I possibly be?

Halfheartedly, I tried again to get the bartender’s attention. I felt like a small child perched on the bar stool, as if I’d climbed too high up a towering tree and there was no way back to solid ground. It was then that I noticed my last remaining leg was gone; my faded black jeans hung off the edge of the seat like two droopy flags, rumpled and flat. All that remained was my torso and head, like the ruins of an ancient statue. I couldn’t move. I felt weightless, as if the earth’s gravitational pull had lost its force and I was in danger of floating away.

And yet, despite everything, I kept looking at the front door with hope, as if I could somehow manifest Maia. But, instead, when the door finally opened, it was a gray-haired couple that entered the bar, the man gently holding the woman’s arm as if to guide her. Slowly, they shuffled past, and I was suddenly struck by how young Maia and I still were; that a time could come in our lives when the recent tumult would have long since receded, buried beneath the weight of the ensuing decades, and we would laugh about our youthful follies. A time when a knowing look meant more than empty words and platitudes, and simple gestures revealed themselves to be love and affection. A day, when old, we too might walk side-by-side, a sweet silence in the low afternoon light.

I turned my dreamy gaze away from the elderly couple as they disappeared from view. There was nothing left to do but wait for Maia. I stared at the wall-to-wall mirror that lined the back of the bar, a mirror that made the cramped interior appear twice as large as it truly was. I scoured the boisterous scene in the dim reflection, searching for my face amongst the crowd, lost forever in a sea of strangers.

Ken Drexler

Ken Drexler is a writer living in Washington, D.C. His short stories have appeared in the Chicago Quarterly Review, Blue Earth Review, Orange Blossom Review, The Fiction Pool, and Lost River Literary Magazine. By day, he works at the Library of Congress.

addiction breakup dark humor grief hallucination isolation late-night short fiction urban life