Lighter and a Knife
by Melissa Goodnight
The bartender asks what two things I’d bring to a deserted island. I don’t know, I say as I slide my glass across the bar, bubbly condensation trailing behind. That’s a lie. I know exactly what I’d bring. I’d bring a lighter and a knife. I’m not stupid, but I never earned a fire-building patch, and you can’t skin a wild hog without a knife. I have wondered, if faced with the choice, whether I could slit the neck of an animal.
In a perfect world, I’d bring other things too. My phone, my television, and since we are imagining situations that are unlikely to happen, I’d bring along Bentley, my dead dog. She wasn’t much of a hunter, but she could tree a squirrel, chase it up the highest branch. The squirrel would jump around, its pulse detectable to Bentley through its hackled, gray fur. Bentley would circle the tree, occasionally snap her jaw toward the sky. Yeah, I’d bring my dead dog back to life and to the island with me. That’s not as crazy as the slurring guy in the corner making eyes at me. Isn’t that what the deserted island question is? Wishful thinking. Or maybe a poor man’s Rorschach. An attempt to delve into the psyche of another. The bartender wants to know my emotional functioning and subconscious desires. I just want another gin and tonic.
I finger my empty glass. The lime has fallen from the rim and slid into the melting ice. I shake what’s left. I try to fish out the lime with a finger, but the ice melts under the heat. I move my hand along the ring of lipstick caked to the glass. I don’t wear lipstick. I clear my throat. The bartender saunters over, snatches my glass and walks away. If I say I want to bring a lighter and a knife then I’m practical, and possibly sober. If I say I’d bring my dead dog, I’m probably drunk. I don’t know how to bring an animal back to life and voodoo seems hard.
A lighter and a knife make sense. With a knife, I am always protected. Or at least I feel like I am. The bartender shoots another glass to me. Then he rolls a lime between his hands, places it on the wood, and digs in with his knife. I imagine squatting over a crackling fire. The sharp blade of a knife stuck inside the waistband of my pants. A small red lighter stuck deep inside my boot. My dead dog cuddled beside the fire. The smell of roasting pork. And I am content.
Melissa’s work has appeared in Mud Season Review, Lunch Ticket, and Litro among others. Melissa earned her BA from Missouri State University, her MA in Creative Writing from the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, and her MFA from Mississippi University for Women. She lives in Atlanta. She can be reached at www.missygoodnight.com or melissagoodnight@outlook.com, and found on Instagram @missygoodnight.