"Are you Gatsby?"
September 22, 1922
Saturday
Last night’s restlessness had poorly influenced this day’s decisions, which I will now painfully detail here.
I woke up in a sweat. The duvet of my bed was swirled in every which way around me, a pillow had been knocked off the bed. But I didn’t think about how bad my sleep was. My first thought that morning was a quick flash of a dream: that man reaching out, giving his toast to the heavens and its stars. This seemed to run in and out of my mind, not leaving a trail behind, because the next thought after that was how hungry I was. I shuffled out of bed and into the slippers I just dug out of a bin. Walking to the door to get my robe gave me extra time to think. Thinking was a more exciting idea to me than most people. Thinking gives you something to discover, something to question. It reminds you that there are things out there that you still have to think about. You do not know everything.
There was a block, though. Keeping me from this usual cynical riverride in my brain. Dotted around in my brain were small, bright lights, hiding in its grooves. They were the stars. I scratched my head, running my fingers through my hair. I couldn’t tell what I was thinking about. When I focused on my thoughts, I found what I wanted for breakfast. Eggs and bacon, or pancakes, or a bagel, or toast, or something else, but at the same time, in the background was this twinkling, this crash of waves that came in between each word that entered. I had a regular stream of thought, but also this presence that lurked over it, refusing to part the tide between the two.
This was a new thing. I had not felt this way before, or at least have not felt this separateness in my brain so tangibly. I ran into the kitchen and grabbed one of the likely unimportant sheets of paper that had been given to me after renting the house. On the corner, I wrote, and transcribe now:
The shimmering in the background of wondering what’s for breakfast
That is life
I will live this.
I felt content with these words, and had read over the last segment for a few moments until I knew I had meant it. I am going to take this unlasting feeling of life and make it last. I will have myself live.
I made myself a coffee as the sun rose higher, and the sky turned from a rare sort of pink glow back to its stable blue. Something about my thoughts that morning had drifted back to the world outside of the house. I had decided to go for a walk around the neighborhood. The front door closed with a slight creak, and I felt like I was now on my own, without a shell to run back to. I was trying to map out an uncharted forest, only instead of trees, the landscape was built of large mansions and shiny-new street lamps.
The mansion had caught my attention again. The stars sharing space with my mind had twinkled as I looked again at it, remembering that view from the middle of the night. I suppose that man lived there. Who else? Surely there was at least one other person keeping the endless rooms occupied. I stared at the mansion for a good moment more, before my feet began to move me in its direction. The gravel roads gave each of my footsteps a loud crunch, a statement to myself that I was here, I was moving, I was living with the city. I began to smile. Things were changing.
When I got closer to this man’s house, I noticed something that I don’t believe was there when I was walking back last night. Three trucks with crates in the back lined the street in front of his home. There were at least ten men lined up, each being handed a crate and led inside, like a line of worker ants. I paced up the hill and got closer to the mansion. I hadn’t been so close to it before. I could see more clearly the beautiful engravings in each bronze beam, climbing every which way building up the house. There were layers of hedges leading from the cul-de-sac to the steps of the front door. The workers carefully avoided the just-trimmed lawn in front of this house. In short, everything about it was perfect. Every blade of glass seemed measured to the perfect height, every hedge made into a perfect, rounded rectangular figure. I had a feeling that if I went up to touch them, I would find that it was a wooden standee instead of real bushes. I made my way into this cul-de-sac slowly, trying to make eye contact with one of the workers to get their attention. Nobody seemed to notice me, though.
“What are you guys moving?” I said, trying to make sure to announce my presence as a curious observer, instead of something confrontational. I expected at least one head to turn, but the workers kept moving. The man on the truck’s back kept handing them crates. They kept turning away towards the doors. “...you need to focus?”
No response. I should’ve turned away at this point, and in hindsight, this was a rude gesture, but I could not stop my curiosity of this. Something about the Long Island morning had made everything so interesting and discoverable. I wanted to keep digging at any spot I could find that had something to figure out. Tell me your secrets, West Egg! I will keep them with me in my head forever. I will look at the ground where I know something once stood. I will watch closely the processes that another man ignores. I will know who was here, and what went on, and what goes on, and what will go on.
I walked up to the man on the truck. “Is there something going on here, at the mansion?” The same lack of response. Yet… “Do you want me to leave?”
There was still no response, no change in demeanor, no visible clue that I would go. I should’ve been more startled than I was, again in hindsight. I looked in the truck now through the windows; there was only one man in it. I knocked on the door. No response, and it seemed his head was tilted downward. I went farther up to the window. His eyes were closed. Was he asleep? I think so.
“Are you okay?”
Suddenly, and to the point that I had been shocked for the first time this morning, a man stepped out of the back row of the truck, wearing a butler uniform, a cigar in hand. He wasn’t there before, was he? Maybe I was still tired from poor sleep. “They’re focused on preparing for tonight. What brings you to trying to bother them?” He asked. This man’s voice was raspy and low. For a second I looked him up and down, hoping to feel some sort of recognition of the man on the balcony. But, he had a fuller figure than the shadow, and didn’t carry himself in such a careful way.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean any trouble. I just moved next door, in the cottage on these grounds, actually. Curious is all.”
He hummed in acceptance of my response, leaving me to ask something else.
“You said something was happening here tonight?”
“Party. Once a week. If you have a car, mind the traffic. Best to get in or out before seven,” the man advised. Jordan had mentioned yesterday that there was a party. Was this it? “Just walk if you’re coming. The street fills up quickly.”
I clapped my hands together and kicked my foot off the ground at an awkward angle. “Oh, I wasn’t invited, so no worries for me. But, thank you for the tip, Mister…?”
“Wolfsheim. And nobody’s invited. Everyone just shows up. Will you?”
I know Daisy wanted me over for lunch. But, Daisy also wanted me and Jordan to hang out. Besides, I knew the Buchanan house. I knew the scattered, pointless conversations we would have that night. You’re a writer, aren’t you? That war hasn’t changed you at all! Why don’t you come over so we can do this all again, and again, and again, and again, and
“I think I will.” I muttered before I could even think it. “Thank you sir, I will” I said, more confidently than before. I stuffed my hands in my pockets.
A smile crept up on Wolfsheim’s face. “Thank you. I’ll let our host know.”
Before I could ask who the host was, or why I was important enough to tell him about, he had walked away. This is it, this is how I’ll live today. I walked away back to my house, giving only a small glance to the crates still autonomously going in.
I didn’t know how many people would be there. I didn’t know how formal it would be. But, this problem didn’t have too much influence on what I was wearing, since the move had given me a very limited wardrobe. My day was spent sorting out boxes and situating the different parts of the house with my many belongings. Excitement clouded my mind the closer it got to seven o’clock. I sat in the mirror, hands shaking as I put finger waves into my hair. A gray linen suit was the only item in my closet that I could see fitting a party in a place of such stature. As I went back into my room to grab the suit jacket off my bed, I froze and my eyes drifted to the window, drawn over by curtains. I was so curious, again. I grabbed the curtain and peeked through. Instead of the tranquil, almost comforting scene that greeted me last night, it was replaced by a bright and shocking circus of lights. Lights were stringed across the mansion’s back garden, lights were reflecting off of hundreds of guests’ sequined outfits lining the bayside. Lightposts were now illuminated, lining the path from my house through the gardens, which would land me in the party. The behemoth party in the behemoth house.
There weren’t many parties in Minnesota. I suppose it made sense, because there was nothing to celebrate there. But here, every day inspired a celebration. Every new day meant one day more that was lived beyond the Great War. Minnesota didn’t have this. This change, this shift and the need to celebrate it. I was astonished by the lights.
I walked through the garden, the soft grass like pillows under my feet. This path hadn’t been used as much as the grand entrance, and as I got closer, the grass got more and more flattened under the pressure of countless high heels, boots, and dress shoes. The noise, too, got more and more crowded in the air. There seemed to be an invisible gate, a place where you would step one foot forward and be bombarded by noise in a most violent way. You’d take one step back, and there it was again, the serene silence of the Midwest.
I took a deep breath as I stepped forward once again, trying to keep my eyes forward as the floods of feathers and beads, making sure I wouldn’t get trampled by the flow of the crowd. I stepped into the yard. The floor beneath me instantly transformed from gravel into marble tile, placed carefully around the different flat levels of the yard. I stood still for a moment to look at the details of its borders, but I quickly got an elbow to the side of my face. I jerked back and upward to assess who this was. I wasn’t surprised to see it could’ve been one of many people in the crowds, dancing and shuffling and ignoring all others around them. From behind me, another shove, someone racing towards a waiter with drinks, whose tray promptly swung over my head. I slipped away into another portion of the crowd, but found that the lack of space was a continuous problem. The orchestra’s notes started to flood through this area, a colorful trumpet, and a growing pace of drums. Tapping and crashing in my ear were hundreds of instruments. There weren’t that many instruments. It was a small jazz quartet situated near the shore. There was an intense drumming not coming from anywhere else. It pounded, pounded in my ear, shaking me with every hit. Louder, and louder, and faster and faster. I clutched my chest, and scurried as fast as I could out of the crowd, to a tree lodged in the corner near a small bar.
My back slammed against the tree trunk as I finished my race against the crowd. My hand grasped tighter on my shirt. I was breathing so, so fast. I couldn’t tell if the world was spinning, if the crowds were spinning, or if it was just my mind. After a few seconds, the drum slowed down. That loud, loud drum was my heart.
Would it always be like this?
I walked over to the bar and was given some sort of red wine, I think port. My eyes flickered between the dancing, the colored lights above, and the steps to the mansion. I had trouble focusing on anything, as my eyelids seemed to grow more heavy by the second, by each sip I had taken from what was now my third glass. The frantic swirling of my panic had been replaced by a strange, slow tilt of the earth. I squinted at the steps of the mansion. This “host” of the party had piqued my interest. Perhaps it was the drinks, but I was now extremely confident that whoever I saw on that dock was the man responsible for this event, and I was confident that meeting him would get me out of whatever this was.
I had pushed myself off the barstool and started to walk towards the staircase when I felt another tap on my shoulder. My normal instincts, and, furthermore, nerves, were intercepted by the alcohol. I barely reacted and slowly spun around to see who it was.
“If it isn’t the life of the party, Nick Carraway!” She yelled out over the blasting jazz band. I squinted at this woman’s face and – oh no.
“Jordan, oh god. Hi.” I spoke, trying to keep my words from slurring. Jordan, for the most part, was indistinguishable from the people around us. The green, silver beading of her top and the shimmer of her pleated pants could have her slip into the crowd and never be found by anyone who knows her ever again… and yet there was something else she had. The way she raised her chin up, perhaps. She was so sure of herself, seemed so sure of the world around her. The crowds around us were all new money, they had everything to gain and everything to lose all at the same time. Jordan didn’t have that sensitivity, being from East Egg and all. She definitely had some sort of generational wealth; if not, she thought she did, all the hours spent in the Buchanan’s dining room.
“You have this look, Jordan…” I began, unsure of what to say, and where to try and put a filter on my wine-poisoned words.
“I don’t like when men start a sentence with that.” Jordan said, avoiding my eyes as she grabbed champagne from a waiter, giving him a nod.
‘I wasn’t trying to… I’m not sure what you’re implying. What do you mean?”
Holding the glass in one hand, she rested the other on her hip. “I know Daisy is trying to fling us together. She’s rambled to me tons about her poor cousin looking for love, who was breaking through in the writing industry. I don’t know why she thought that description of you would win me over.”
“I don’t- writing isn’t what I’ve been doing. She knows I work, right?” I scrambled together words, avoiding the scrutiny I felt I’d get from her.
“So, is the other part true? Are you looking for love?” She said, her eyes snapping in place as she looked me up and down. After a moment of confusion, I could tell what she was trying to ask.
“No, no, don’t worry. I don’t feel that way for you.” I put my hands up to emphasize my lack of engagement with this idea. She was pretty, for sure, but I hadn’t even entertained that idea in my head.
Jordan laughed at this gesture. I couldn’t tell if she was laughing at me. “Just making sure. I could tell, but sometimes you trust a man you shouldn’t.”
“Oh, yes. For sure,” I said in total, drunken agreement. It must’ve sounded funny, because Jordan gave more than a chuckle to this, full out laughter.
“The whole ‘moving across the country to find love’ idea, that doesn’t interest you?” Jordan asked, sipping her drink for the first time.
I didn’t really know how to answer this. I hadn’t thought about the romantic implications of this move. “I mean, I don’t know.” I took this pause in my sentence to take a sip of my wine, yet again. “I’ve never been the romantic type. I dated a few girls during school, but I didn’t care as much as they did.” After this Jordan paused for a second and then nodded deeply, biting her lip. Finally there was something I said that didn’t sound hysterical to her.
“How is the fresh taste of New York treating you? I’d assume it's a big change from Minnesota.”
It was my turn to give a dramatic nod. I lobbed my head and down, and I had to stop when the lights got too blurred. “Tastes like, uh, freshly minted coins. And red wine.” Jordan laughed again, this time at an intentional joke, so I kept going. “I don’t know. I don’t know a lot of things right now. But I think that’s good. That’s what I think New York is for me.”
Jordan smiled. Not the usual, orchestrated smile she gave at the Buchanans’ dinner party. This was a genuine one. It was warm. “That’s pretty much it. People don’t make sense here. It’s interesting to be around them. It’s interesting to guess.” She tipped her glass towards mine. “This is what most of these parties will feel like before you get used to the crowds.”
I hummed in recognition, and turned back to the bar. The bartender had automatically started to pour more wine into my glass. I didn’t say anything, encapsulated by the sky past him. There was this starlight that managed to bounce off onto the clouds. The view was enchanted.
It was enchanted by that man, I think. I wanted to find him, I wanted to know why he managed to keep so vivid in my mind.
“Who hosts these parties?”
“Gatsby.” I didn’t recognize the name, and Jordan could tell. “People say he’s a criminal. A war general. All these strange local myths, really. It’s what keeps people coming to the parties, like they might discover his greatest secret if they get through one more bottle of his champagne.”
“Gatsby…” I whispered, trailing off as I looked at the staircase again, leading to the glowing back door. It was calling me. This name was calling me. I had never heard it before, but I knew the name was the right one.
I could feel Jordan’s eyes on me, but I had been completely encapsulated by this man. Her cold hands grabbed my fingers pinching the wine glass, as she slowly slipped it out of my grasp. “You’ve got to get better at this, though. You save the fourth glass until after the fireworks, at least.”
I briefly looked over at Jordan and gave her a dumb smile, before gravity tilted my head back to Gatsby’s mansion. She slipped a napkin or something else into my coat pocket. I didn’t notice when she left me alone at the bar.
For what could’ve been seconds or minutes or an hour, I studied the building, my eyes drifting up the different swirls, columns, railings building it up. This peace was interrupted, though, by a shrieking whistle behind me. A booming pop exploded in the sky behind me and my body stiffened. I gripped the sides of my chair tightly, later leaving imprints across my palm. I turned around. The fireworks Jordan slightly mentioned, they had started. That drum in my chest already returned, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to handle them, even in such a diluted state. I slid off the chair, cradling my nearly-empty glass as I shuffled through the now-still, mesmerized crowd. The light of those doors inside were the only thing clear in my vision.
The lavishness of the inside was more than I could’ve imagined, even with seeing everything outside. The velvet carpeting extended for miles across the main hall. There was even more marble, this time not weighed down and dirtied by the thousands of footsteps it met each party. There were at most ten people dotted here and there, looking down at a business card or quietly kissing each other. A large golden chandelier marked each pathway. Whatever I had felt outside was erased by the alien atmosphere of this place. But, the wonderment only lasted so long as the crackling fireworks continued, and pierced my ears and heart with every pop. I spun around the room, hoping to find some sort of escape. It was then that I was set on my next step, climbing up the large, red-carpeted staircase that centered the grand room. Beautiful marble columns created rails up it. I couldn’t focus on the detail as I ran up it in a blur. A large stretch of doors awaited upstairs. No chairs or decorations laced the floor. It seemed I had moved out of the main areas for the party, but it did not matter to me. What mattered to me was the painful flashes of noise now only tickling at my ears. This hall had disoriented me, of course mixed with the heavier drinking than I usually do. It created a bad combination, leading me to stumble forward as I went towards the nearest door at the center, some sort of dark wood creating this frame two times my height. I jiggled the bronze handle, but it was locked. Every door seemed to be secure, just from the unilluminated look. I glanced at the end of the hall before I had planned to turn back downstairs, when I noticed one set of doorways in particular. Unlike the others, someone must’ve been in it. Light shone from the cracks between the frames. Some sort of ethereal light. It must’ve blinded me, because as I blinked a few times, I was suddenly right there at the door. These memories are fuzzy, looking back. I had long finished my next drink by then. Everything seemed unclear to me, except the voice in my head, telling me Go, Nick. Go, in. Discover what’s inside.
I practically fell onto the handle as I pushed it forward. This time, it moved. I stumbled into the… dark room. “Is anyone in here? I could’ve sworn I saw…” I trailed off. Nobody was here. The room’s glow was a trick of the light, then. My hand, still on the door, ran down it, ready to leave. I turned and looked into the hall. The empty staircase. The abandoned mansion halls. I was frozen. I couldn’t move until an uncontrolled sigh broke from my lips. My eyes were watery, and, oh- it was a sob. I let the door close, leaving myself in the pitch-black room. My shaky body lowered itself onto the wooden floor, and I leaned back onto the wall with a deep breath.
This hope for New York. This expected turnover of my life. Coming back from the war, continuing after the war. It was all pointless. Yes, everything was unknown, but there was nothing to learn. Jordan said that she tries guessing why people around her are the way they are. That is all there is, though. There’s no fresh mystery in New York. Just a bunch of arbitrary unknown things that wouldn’t make my life better knowing or not knowing them. I would never know anything. I would never know myself after the war. I would never know anything after the war.
It was pointless.
“The party’s downstairs, you know,” a voice said, eerily close to me. Someone was… here. In the dark, who was there? No words escaped my mouth. The flick of a lightswitch beside me changed the whole scene, getting rid of the envelope of darkness shrouding my tears. There was a man in front of me.
“I could say the same to you…” I said frustratedly as I wiped my eyes to behold whoever had just witnessed my crying. I brought my hand out of my vision.
A dark-haired, slim man in an ornate suit.
He was the man on the dock.
That same warm buzz from watching the scene filled my head. I knew it was him.
“I needed a drink. The ones downstairs aren’t exactly to my liking.” He said. That was the voice of the man on the dock. This silky, shifting voice, like he decided that each syllable he spoke deserved its own song.
“Uh, me neither. I came here for…” my vision sparkled as I looked at the walls of books dividing up the room. The same bronze of the exterior detailing seemed to dominate the room decor, too. “...a drink.”
He hummed lowly. A buttery smooth note, like he was trying to harmonize with the unheard jazz orchestra downstairs. When the note suddenly seceded, it created a sort of unpleasant, biting silence in the air. And then he spoke again; “Let’s have one last drink tonight.”
I stared at him breathlessly, the way he almost glided towards this small side table in the study. Two red-cushioned chairs were situated on either side. I’m sure he read there when he wasn’t hiding out from the party. His party.
I picked myself up off the floor and moved slowly to the seat. I didn’t keep my eyes off him the whole time. He sat down and crossed his legs, and I quickly followed suit and let myself sink into the chair. He stared at me silently, but not to suggest he wanted me to speak. A sort of quiet meeting. I glanced at his features. His dark hair was parted on the side and slicked, keeping a very slight wavy texture to it despite an attempt to be tamed. A small smile quivered on his lips, but he didn’t seem to shake out of fear. And his eyes. His eyes were like pools of liquid gold, small hazel flecks scattered about them. In objectivity, he was a beautiful man. It had made me wish that the view I had of him reaching across the bay wasn’t such an abstract silhouette. His eyes…
“I don’t believe I’ve seen you at a party before. Is this your first one?” he asked me, shaking me from his eyes back to his voice. I wish I had saved myself from wine’s grasp before this conversation. I would’ve loved to articulate myself better. Yes, it was the wine that made me so unable to speak.
“Yes,” I spat out. If there was any sort of way to make small talk more interesting, I had forgotten it, and I was left with only the most basic answers to the wonderfully crafted words of his. “Uhm, yes, this is my first time here.” His eyebrows suggested some sort of emotion, but I could not decipher a single thing about this man.
“Enjoying yourself?” He asked, placing his hands on the sides of his chair as he got up. He carefully brought himself over to a golden drink cart in the corner.
I wanted to tell this man that I had enjoyed what was supposedly his party. But I hadn’t, and I also hadn’t had any filter to my thoughts. I was disarmed by the wine and his welcome. “I wanted to. I don’t think I have a place here. Anywhere.” I put my head in my hand as I wondered why I would bore him with this. I looked back up at him as I heard glasses clinking. He had poured a glass of red wine for me and himself. His walk back was equally as graceful. There wasn’t anything particular that made this man so elegant. He just was.
“Well, I hope that this will be a place for you.” He chuckled and handed me a glass. It was the same red wine I had gotten from the bar. I nodded eagerly and gave him a big smile to show I was appreciative.
“This was the first conversation I’ve had with someone tonight – someone new, tonight. Thanks.”
He smiled at me, showing his teeth. Of course, he had a perfect smile, with sharp canine teeth. Whatever threatening appearance he bore, it didn’t matter. He had made me completely forget the panic of earlier. This room felt like a completely different part of the universe. Like I could lie down here forever, and nobody could find me. I felt wrapped in a warm blanket. I felt safe.
His hand smoothly brought his drink up towards me for a toast. I do the same. Another unspoken conversation. We clink glasses, and I take a sip of mine. I put my glass down and watch him take his drink. There must’ve been something different in his drink, still red wine, though. No light bounced off it.
His lips parted from the glass and he set it back down with a slight gasp. “Who are you?”
“Pardon?” I asked between more sips of my wine.
“Your name, your job, your problems. Who are you?” he asked. Despite my shock, he didn’t seem to take this as a sudden or intrusive question. I wouldn’t have answered if it was anyone else, but he seemed genuine in wanting to know.
“Nick.” I mustered up the courage. “I- I’ve just started working in the city, the bonds business.” My foot was bouncing on the floor now. I hadn’t felt unsettled, but I didn’t want to bring all that was outside in here.
“And?” he asked. His voice took on a softer, whispery tone. Like he was reading out a lullaby.
“I… just fought in the war. That’s why I came down here,” my shaky voice managed. Upon saying this, he leaned closer, cocking his head to the side as though I was telling him what he wanted to hear. I paused, thinking he would want to say something. But, only that piercing silence prevailed, so I kept going. “Minnesota – where I’m from – wasn’t different. It wasn’t changing with me, I suppose. I felt stuck. I had nothing more to do.”
His eyelids lowered as he continued staring at me. I paused to keep looking in his eyes. Liquid gold, honey pools, candle flames. They perplexed me. This man couldn’t have been real, and yet I kept speaking to him. He was inviting me to create connection, to tether myself back to the earth. I felt I would never get this chance again.
“New York is different, and yet the same. Everythings changing, yes, but it’s changing without me. I want to grow, I want to keep learning and… discovering things about this world, about myself. But this growth in New York, it only grows to create more mysteries, more dead end things that I’ll never do,” I rambled, pausing to catch my breath as I noticed that I hadn’t been breathing. I had instead perfectly wrapped up the feelings I had inside. At this point, I hadn’t said these things to myself yet. “I still have nothing here to do.”
The rasp in his voice seemed to part the air between us. “Nothing more to do. Hmm.” He hummed again, like something in his mind had just been confirmed and he knew the world wanted to know what he was thinking.
It was around this time, with another sip of my drink, that I had begun to notice I was incredibly dizzy. I think I finished my wine after that, somehow hoping that having more would correct the damage it did, would normalize it in my body.
After about ten minutes of a blanket of silence; “Is there anyone waiting for you?” he asked, whispering to me like he almost felt bad asking. Almost. But the smile on his face showed me his lack of concern.
My foggy mind had traced through my brain, thinking of anyone that I know would worry where I went. My thoughts were as distorted as the ornate ceiling I was staring up at. After about a minute I shook my head no.
“Is there anything left for you to do?”
I tried picturing what I would do tomorrow. What I would do the day after that. Just a fog.
No.
“You can rest now, alright? Drink a little more,” he coaxed. He went to grab that wine bottle from the cart again, and poured some for me.
Through the clouds of my mind suddenly erupted the picture from last night. “There was one thing I had wanted to – are you Gatsby?” I stuttered out as I grabbed the wineglass from his hand and sputtered down more.
He laughed – a short, graceful chime. “Yes. I’m not one to parade around in other peoples’ studies. Like you.”
I put down the glass and leaned backwards into the chair, almost sliding off it. I closed my eyes and laughed. “I saw you last night. Reaching out to the sky.”
Gatsby froze at this. His glide across the room and across facial expressions hadn’t paused until now. “...You’re not my new neighbor, in the cottage next-door?”
I rubbed the wine off my lips. “Yeah… just moved.” My words were slurring with no guard at this point. I was surprised they were understood by him at all. He stared away from me, at the ground for a moment, not yet sitting back down.
After a moment… “You should go home, Nick.” I must’ve made a noise in surprise at his sudden change in demeanor, because he reiterated. “It will all feel better in the morning. God, this is- I’m sorry.” He corked the wine and put it all away in the cart, like he was rushing to clean up a crime scene. He grabbed my shoulder and stared at my face. It was like he was trying to memorize the glisten in my eyes, the curve of my nose, the stubble on my chin. “Go get some rest and you’ll feel better, okay?”
I watched his eyes, still, darting around my face. Like honey pools, like liquid gold, like candlelight…
I remember walking home slowly, hobbling through the rows of rose bushes and dispersing crowds. I briefly threw up in the gardens between my house and his. It was better to get it out then than feel the pounding in my head and overbearing nausea the whole night.
But, I was not thinking about the wine. The only thing I thought of was Gatsby, humming as he took a sip of his drink.