A Strange Reflection (Book Part 34)

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Exhausted, frustrated, and pretty damn angry that nothing—not one thing—has felt satisfying, I pull off the highway into Fargo. I take a back road into town and park outside a nondescript bar glowing with tired neon.

Inside, I slide onto a high-backed wooden chair at the bar. No one else is here. After about a minute, long enough to regret coming in and start wondering what else I could be doing, the bartender pushes through a pair of swinging doors, likely from the kitchen. She greets me with a casual warmth and asks what I’m having.

I ordered an IPA. I regret it immediately.

Still, despite my agitation, I can’t help but notice how strikingly beautiful she is—tall, fit, and despite being older than me, untouched by time in the way that draws attention. I catch myself wondering how she ended up here.

She places the frothy glass down on a square white napkin. I take a sip and ask, “How long have you lived in Fargo?”

Bar rag in hand, she turns. “I recently moved back from Seattle. But I grew up here. Left for school.”

“Funny. I’m from Seattle, too.”

“Oh yeah? Man, I love it there. It was a dream of mine. I really loved my job…” She smiles, lost in the memory for a moment.

“So why’d you move back?” I ask.

She leans in slightly, voice softening. “My dad’s health is declining. I’m an only child. My mom died a few years ago, so… I came back to take care of him.”

From where I sit—still younger, my head full of dreams—I pity her. Quietly. Invisibly. I tell myself I wouldn’t let that happen to me.

But even as the thought takes shape, I feel a tug somewhere deeper.
Because I already have.

There was a time I believed I could help people—really help them. That I was meant to. I carried that dream like a small flame, careful not to let it blow out. But somewhere along the way, I set it down. I chose distraction. Distance. Motion.

And now here I am, in a bar in Fargo, pretending I don’t recognize what I’m becoming.

I nod. I tell her why I’m here, or at least a version of it. When I ask where to go next, she offers: “You could check out the west side. That’s where the bars and clubs are. It’s mostly college kids, a younger crowd.” She glances at the clock. “It’s almost 10 p.m.—might be a little early still, but it’s something.”

I thank her. Pay the bill. And walk back out into the night.