The White Glass

I haven’t had a drink in ten years. A man hasn’t touched me in five. I am 31, single, and tall. And tonight, I will enter into a drunken haze: a place forbidden to my conscience and liver for too long. Tonight, no man will touch me. Tonight, I will touch a man.

The night starts early and finds me in a silk black dress and beige high-heeled boots. My lips are siren red, glossy, and plumped to please. My tears from earlier have been quickly erased from my cheeks, covered by makeup and dignity. Silver earrings dance in hoops, bouncing around my neck to remind me who I am: in control.

Dr. Chase said I could drink again. Lightly, of course. My therapy sessions have been progressing. In celebration of this news, I begin my search at The White Glass, a bar only a block away from my apartment. The streets of San Diego pulse with lights and potential as I march. Couples strut in groups, their hands intertwined and their arms wrapped around each other to hold in the secrets of love. Singles pass a bottle of brandy back and forth to forget what they’re really searching for: a breath of life. I join the pursuit.

The White Glass proves as classy as expected: sleek, leather couches encompass dark tables throughout the room, echoed by red walls. The air smells and feels like maple syrup, as if my cognition has already begun to slow down. Shadows mingle, spread over tables and couches, and their voices are soft shocks in my shoes as I reach the bar and order a cranberry vodka. Sitting back, I sip carefully through a coffee straw -- it keeps my tongue a healthy pink and my lips pursed, accentuating my jaw line. It has been too long since I have left my reality and allowed myself a drink. The sweet and bitter tastes mix in my throat like a romantic tango and my tongue sets the rhythm. I have forgotten how wonderful the burn in my chest feels as it forces me to relax and to breathe. I haven’t had a real breath in ten years, but I’m already slipping back into my old habits as the past welcomes me home. 

I finish my drink and order another, ignoring Dr. Chase’s imminent disapproval at our next session. The grain of addiction begins to grow as each drink pirouettes between my teeth, flirting with my tongue. The years slip away and the memories threaten to surface, but, my next drink, a shot of whiskey, drowns my thoughts. I evade my inescapable past and, instead, I wait, eyes scanning for anyone to make me forget the forlorn, mutilated side of myself that threatens to be released.

Half an hour and four drinks go by before I see him. He sits alone, like me, in a two-person booth that faces a picture of a band that was famous in my drinking years. I think about late concert nights without sleep, daydreaming about love and the taste of a stranger’s lips. Our eardrums pounding and our hearts pleased, we would scream our experiences in grand detail the entire ride home. I think of loving a man, but I force the thought into a crevice of my mind that contains cobwebs and guilt.

I focus on the mystery instead. He’s older, but an age that he carries well, with no sign of a wedding band. He watches the condensation drip down his glass of scotch, his thumbs making slow circles where the ice meets the dark amber. He slowly raises his eyes to mine until his mouth twitches into a smirk. I arch my eyebrows and turn back to the bar.             

The night begins.

My watch reads 11:31, which reminds me of my age, but instead of its usual deflating quality, it lifts me up and puts me on a pedestal of grace and experience. I smile as I sit atop my stool, wondering what my first move will be. Twenty minutes have passed since my initial eye contact. I sneak a look at my prey, but the booth he previously occupied is empty.

He approaches. 

His walk is smooth: one hand tucked into his front pocket and the other grasps the scotch: a small, brown puddle shaking softly with his footsteps. His face molds the smirk he claims as his own.

“Charles Kane, darling.”

He raises his glass in acknowledgement and then holds out a hand. I consider ignoring him, simply because he has destroyed a good hunt. Instead, I shake his hand:

“Samantha.”

His hand is soft and uncallused. I no longer trust this man. He reminds me of someone I knew long ago, but I ignore the thought, swallowing it with a quick drink. He smells burnt, like he has spent days burning ideas in his dark eyes. Those eyes become ants crawling over my body, up and down, until they meet mine. He takes a strong swig and a purr escapes his lips. His mouth curls to the sides like wet paper as he watches my confident persona drip out of me and down my face. I do not approve of being someone’s prey, but I consider playing along.

       The door opens.

       My chest hurts, but I know it’s from a memory instead of the liquor. I am drawn to the new arrival as my eyes follow her inside. I feel the danger rising in the air but the breeze from the opening door pushes her into the bar and places her into a chair. She holds the confidence that melted off of me earlier, as if it has flown through the air and she has sucked it through her nude lips. 

She orders a glass of red wine. 

She has been crying. 

I swallow the fear in my throat, ignoring the fact that I know this woman. I know her like a child knows divorce. I know her like an ache in my head. I know this woman.

        “I’m really quite fond of Escher, myself, for he represents an interesting quirk of dimensions that I see in you

“Oh, do you?” I muse, but his words sound like flattened clay: shaped into intelligence but relatively empty.

         “I do, I do indeed. May I buy you a drink, sweet Samantha?”

        The woman I’ve been watching rubs her upper lip with her middle finger, drags her hand slowly down her neck, and lets it hover.

          I make a decision. I turn back to this man:

         “No, Charles Kane, I’m sorry. I need to talk to…someone. Bye.”

         He gives me a curious look, but smirks and slinks away into the other shadows. I look over to the woman: she’s brunette and she’s tall, like me. Her red-rimmed eyes reflect the wine she attempts to fall into. Her eyes meet mine -- I hold my breath -- they’re green, like seaweed and thyme. 

I remember them.

She pushes out a chair, which I slither into, folding one leg over the other, letting the silk dress fall from my knee. Her lips meet her wine glass, sipping; waiting. I put my straw between my teeth and massage it with my tongue. We do not introduce ourselves. I have not touched a man in five years and she’s the reason why.

***

            The taxi we take home drives quickly, whipping through lights and memories, but slowing time down to a millisecond for every mile. The drinks make me feel as if I’m glued between present and past, never realizing I was stuck until I can move again. The movement of the car doesn’t keep my mind in place, but the feel of her next to me stabilizes my mind. 

She has warm, ivory skin with three small freckles on her knee. My thoughts flicker on those three freckles. I concentrate on them, imagining faces and stories for each one: a trio of brothers or a collection of moments turned into stars. I imagine the freckles drawn together into a triangle where I could peer into her mind. I find myself there, nestled between skin and sanity. I attempt to push her away, but she is a part of me and I can no longer deny her existence.

            The cab stops. I can feel myself swimming to the apartment and surfing up the stairs until I am lounging in a pool of thoughts at the foot of the door. I want to accept her broken body and apologize for leaving her. I want to love her as I used to love myself. I kiss her fingertips, which are dipped in gold and trail secrets over my skin. I hold her hips and feel the shift in her collarbones. I am floating in my own mind as I touch her shoulder and feel it on mine. My lips are hers. We are two bodies with one mind and she reminds me of someone I used to know. Her eyes are green and her eyelids thin. She is speckled with memories and ideas.

            As my lips slowly follow the hills on her body, her shoulders begin to shake. The tears run too fast down her cheeks for me to stop them and then I see the burn marks on her shoulder and I remember the feeling of hot iron and isolation. I touch the identical mark on my own shoulder and remember my decision to never touch a man again. His hand, fierce and fast on my cheek, fills my mind. The memory breaks through and rises in my throat like bile.

            She whispers: Samantha. Samantha.

            It’s not her voice, but it echoes around me and I want to scream.

            You love it, you love him. Come back, Samantha. 

            I shake my head, trying to focus on the feeling of her in front of me, face to face. She begins to fade. I look at the constellations of freckles on her shoulders, but there are no triangles to dive into. I lose her and my thoughts crack open. I run in circles, my voice breaking, as I hear her, but it’s my voice.

            She says: Your freckles are beautiful. Beautiful, Samantha. Your freckles, Samantha.

            I feel the hot slap on my cheek. I force her face and her voice out of my head, but she’s still there.

Samantha.

My mouth closes quickly, but I can’t stop:

Samantha.

I close my eyes, but when they open, the mirror in my apartment reflects nothing but the blur of my own ivory skin. My breath sticks in my throat as if it’s sewn into the walls. I reach out a hand, hoping to find her, but the arm in front of me reaches as well, infinitely.

I look at my knees.

Three freckles come into focus: they’re dotted and dashed, but mine.