ladymina
New Member
There are no guarantees in life.
That’s the conclusion she’d come to by this day’s end. It was the only real thought that made sense, being how and where things had ended up.
Her first taste of vodka was a shock to the senses. Immediate regret washed through her, riding a subtle tide of nausea coursing from throat to stomach’s pit, and back. Why you sipped that, Elene, I just don’t know. There she was—that relentless Inner Critic. It was immediately obvious why people threw these back instead of actually drinking shots—they couldn’t get it past their tongue fast enough. And now she was stuck with an oversized thimble-full of the vile clear stuff. She’d ordered it on the wave of a whim—because she was always riding one wave or another lately—and this surging idea had brought her three blocks south and west of the bank, in through the threshold of one bar on a whole block of eclectic bars, and into this very seat, perched atop a teetering stool with arm outstretched and shot glass in hand. Curses. So many curses.
Her arm lowered, the glass touched down on the dark wood varnish of the bar top. The counter spanned out beside her on either side, its right wing wrapping to form a corner where the barkeep leaned familiarly towards a patron duo in lazy conversation. At just around 5 o’clock on a wednesday afternoon the place had more people than she’d expected, but she was still practically alone at the counter. There was no pressure, no rush. She was now feeling somehow honor-bound to this absurd little vial, but it didn’t have to disappear immediately. She’d chosen this spontaneous diversion as the way to attempt escaping the events of the day, and yet here she was, regretting where the events of said day had gotten her. There was just no winning. Ah, well.
And then, to pour salt in the wound, the denim-covered enigma that slid up beside her next didn’t bode improvement. The scrubby man joined her by brushing unceremoniously past before straddling the neighboring stool. Please, no. Dare she risk a glance? She risked it, adding it to her list of regrets when she found the occupant’s face staring unabashedly back, stale beer smell wafting over to mount a further sensory assault. “Hey.” the guy gushed, hunching forward over the counter to set an empty can down. A beer-in-a-can at a bar, how classy. How many he’d had by 5 o’clock was anyone’s guess. A replacement can sprang up after a wordless exchange with the bartender. Okay, so he’d only been replenishing his drink, but now he had an excuse to stay and talk. Great.
When she’d set out on her mission she’d been of a single mind: go escape, use any tactic you’ve not yet tried. Bingo: alcohol, a singular pursuit. Nowhere in the spontaneity of the endeavor were external forces factored in. Being talked to at the bar? Unfathomable. But the fool was still sitting there, clutching his Pabst tallboy, waiting for a response to what he must have thought had been a great icebreaker. Is this where we chat? Please don’t make us have to chat. The inward cringe gave way to outward reluctance. “Oh, yeah, hey...”
“Hey, yourself. You’ve got a good thing goin’ there, little lady. I can get another started for’ya, too.” He gave her the once-over as he spoke, then motioned with his can-hand towards the neglected shot glass as an afterthought. Was that supposed to be a come-on? Honestly. She turned away towards the bartender who was already moseying back down the bar to the corner spot. No help to be expected, there. She swiveled slightly to scan the rest of the room. A scattering of patrons sat in booths and at tables, a pair of disinterested people stood propped against a shuffleboard table near the back. She was well and truly on her own for this one.
Elene turned back to the bar, grabbing the shot glass as if the moment of truth had arrived, but stilled herself, perpetually unready. “I like the dress.” Clearly she was still being eyed. Clearly he wasn’t getting it. It isn’t a dress, dumb-ass, it’s a long shirt. The Inner Critic could be catty indeed, and the dude wasn’t helping her irritation levels. And yet no matter how dark the inner monologue got, she was always just too damn nice for it to crack the surface. Instead of giving him the death glare she felt, she blushed uselessly, now cupping the shot glass with both hands.
You asked for this, girl. What did you think, walking into a bar, that it would be just you? And now what, you’ll have to fend off some burn-out that can’t read body language? Nice escape plan, genius. Relief was not guaranteed, here—nothing is guaranteed. Not even our lives.
Her thoughts darkened, her mind blocked out the hovering urchin beside her. Because today, she’d lost someone. Because today, the accumulation of all the things she’d fled from three months ago had come crashing down around her.
That’s the conclusion she’d come to by this day’s end. It was the only real thought that made sense, being how and where things had ended up.
Her first taste of vodka was a shock to the senses. Immediate regret washed through her, riding a subtle tide of nausea coursing from throat to stomach’s pit, and back. Why you sipped that, Elene, I just don’t know. There she was—that relentless Inner Critic. It was immediately obvious why people threw these back instead of actually drinking shots—they couldn’t get it past their tongue fast enough. And now she was stuck with an oversized thimble-full of the vile clear stuff. She’d ordered it on the wave of a whim—because she was always riding one wave or another lately—and this surging idea had brought her three blocks south and west of the bank, in through the threshold of one bar on a whole block of eclectic bars, and into this very seat, perched atop a teetering stool with arm outstretched and shot glass in hand. Curses. So many curses.
Her arm lowered, the glass touched down on the dark wood varnish of the bar top. The counter spanned out beside her on either side, its right wing wrapping to form a corner where the barkeep leaned familiarly towards a patron duo in lazy conversation. At just around 5 o’clock on a wednesday afternoon the place had more people than she’d expected, but she was still practically alone at the counter. There was no pressure, no rush. She was now feeling somehow honor-bound to this absurd little vial, but it didn’t have to disappear immediately. She’d chosen this spontaneous diversion as the way to attempt escaping the events of the day, and yet here she was, regretting where the events of said day had gotten her. There was just no winning. Ah, well.
And then, to pour salt in the wound, the denim-covered enigma that slid up beside her next didn’t bode improvement. The scrubby man joined her by brushing unceremoniously past before straddling the neighboring stool. Please, no. Dare she risk a glance? She risked it, adding it to her list of regrets when she found the occupant’s face staring unabashedly back, stale beer smell wafting over to mount a further sensory assault. “Hey.” the guy gushed, hunching forward over the counter to set an empty can down. A beer-in-a-can at a bar, how classy. How many he’d had by 5 o’clock was anyone’s guess. A replacement can sprang up after a wordless exchange with the bartender. Okay, so he’d only been replenishing his drink, but now he had an excuse to stay and talk. Great.
When she’d set out on her mission she’d been of a single mind: go escape, use any tactic you’ve not yet tried. Bingo: alcohol, a singular pursuit. Nowhere in the spontaneity of the endeavor were external forces factored in. Being talked to at the bar? Unfathomable. But the fool was still sitting there, clutching his Pabst tallboy, waiting for a response to what he must have thought had been a great icebreaker. Is this where we chat? Please don’t make us have to chat. The inward cringe gave way to outward reluctance. “Oh, yeah, hey...”
“Hey, yourself. You’ve got a good thing goin’ there, little lady. I can get another started for’ya, too.” He gave her the once-over as he spoke, then motioned with his can-hand towards the neglected shot glass as an afterthought. Was that supposed to be a come-on? Honestly. She turned away towards the bartender who was already moseying back down the bar to the corner spot. No help to be expected, there. She swiveled slightly to scan the rest of the room. A scattering of patrons sat in booths and at tables, a pair of disinterested people stood propped against a shuffleboard table near the back. She was well and truly on her own for this one.
Elene turned back to the bar, grabbing the shot glass as if the moment of truth had arrived, but stilled herself, perpetually unready. “I like the dress.” Clearly she was still being eyed. Clearly he wasn’t getting it. It isn’t a dress, dumb-ass, it’s a long shirt. The Inner Critic could be catty indeed, and the dude wasn’t helping her irritation levels. And yet no matter how dark the inner monologue got, she was always just too damn nice for it to crack the surface. Instead of giving him the death glare she felt, she blushed uselessly, now cupping the shot glass with both hands.
You asked for this, girl. What did you think, walking into a bar, that it would be just you? And now what, you’ll have to fend off some burn-out that can’t read body language? Nice escape plan, genius. Relief was not guaranteed, here—nothing is guaranteed. Not even our lives.
Her thoughts darkened, her mind blocked out the hovering urchin beside her. Because today, she’d lost someone. Because today, the accumulation of all the things she’d fled from three months ago had come crashing down around her.
