Some of the best stories I have been told came from people when their hands were wrapped around glasses with dark liquids. I will always remember the look in their eyes and the rising and ebbing of the vulnerability beneath. I will remember their stories, not just because their stories were noteworthy, but also because the time they told me their stories was magical; a time where for only a brief while, I walked through their worlds, waiting, watching, listening.

In the dark smoke filled room, I heard a story about guilt, the most unforgiving of emotions which found its way into the conversation, as the people at the table became increasingly uninhibited.
As a child, the storyteller had a  friend; a girl with straight brown hair and teeth that were held in place with braces. They played with each other often enough and their parents would coo over how perhaps when they grew up, they’d marry. The storyteller, a rather disgruntled young boy, was offended every time this was said and told his parents he wouldn’t marry someone so strange. “She smells like bananas.” He told his parents, while they laughed at how cute he was. He didn’t mind playing with her though; she played a mean game of Monopoly.

At a picnic, both families decided that the kids could go play while the adults chatted and drank beers from yellow cans. As the afternoon grew warmer and the parents became more animated, he and his friend snuck away to skip stones at a lake. She told him she really liked looking at fish, because “They look so happy all the time.” They sat at the edge, looking at fish and arguing as children do, over something insignificant.

One thing led to another and he told her that should she able to swim to the other end, he’d let her have some book she’d been eyeing for a while. She agreed but said she’d need to check with her mother. He knew he’d get yelled at for suggesting this and told her to “stop being such a baby” and to swim anyway.

The story got pretty predictable at this point, and the storyteller told us about him screaming because her bobbing head disappeared, the livid parents, the accusatory glances, the bloated, lifeless friend whose parents moved homes immediately after and the recurring dream ever since with the bloated dead body and the leaves stuck in her brown hair.

Somewhere in that room, we were part of his thoughts. Although the grief had been dulled by time, there would always be an unshakeable sense of remorse that someone who could have been around, perhaps at this table, died because of a silly bet. As everyone became quieter, I realized that hanging somewhere between the guilt and the regret, was a silent plea to not be judged.