Beneath The Surface

We were almost closing when she walked in and took a seat in one of the booths at the far end of the bar. She looked like she was on some involuntary fast. Her hair needed a comb, and her eyes craved sleep. Her skin was extremely tanned, her cheeks thin, and her neck bone so prominent it looked like it could hold almost half a liter of water. But beneath all those features was a very beautiful, slender young woman, probably my age whose appearance didn't match the expensive outfit she had on.

Her face was buried in her hands when I approached her to take her order.

“Hello, miss. What may I offer you?” I asked.

“Your best gin,” she responded softly.

“Umm, gin?” I needed to be sure.

She nodded.

“Would you like anything else?” I asked, concerned.

She didn’t respond, so I walked away.

A few minutes later, I returned with a tray. On it sat a glass, bottle of water and the best gin we had in the bar. I didn’t want to judge her pocket by her appearance.

She grabbed the glass as soon as I placed it on the table and stretched it out. Her eyes, urging me to immediately pour the gin in.

“Water helps reduce the alcohol level,” I said, as she shot me an angry look for picking up the water bottle instead of the gin.

“If I needed water, I’d have asked for it.” Her brows furrowed, and her chest rose.

“It was just a helpful suggestion. Don't get red about it.”

Customers are always right, so I poured the gin.

“Fill it to the brim,” she barked when I stopped halfway the glass.

“I see why you look so pale,” I muttered under my breath as I filled the glass. She shot me a look that made my legs shake. Then, all of a sudden, her tough demeanor collapsed, and she started sobbing as she downed the entire contents of the glass, to my dismay.

“Do you mind sharing what’s eating you up?” I asked, pulling out a chair across from hers and sitting down. My eyes stayed on her long face, trying to guess what kind of trauma had her in this state.

We sat in silence for a long time. She didn’t look me in the eye once. Her head stayed bowed the entire time, but I kept filling her glass. Thankfully, no other customers walked in. It was just me and this strange girl.

When she finally emptied the bottle, she passed me a ten-dollar bill and staggered to her feet.

“Oh, it’s one of her habits,” I scoffed, pushing myself up from the seat. My legs sore from sitting too long, waiting for a rude girl to spill her silly romance story, the one that had her drinking herself almost to death.

“You don’t dare scoff at me,” I heard her slur while I gathered the items from the table. “You don’t dare!” She hit the table and collapsed onto it. “You’re not better than me, just so you know," she sobbed.

Her display of drunkenness was more hilarious than upsetting.

“They left me. Both of them. Same day, same time. They argued too much. Just when I was about to go to college, they chose to leave. Now tell me, why shouldn’t I make alcohol my best friend? It’s the only thing that doesn’t judge me. It just makes me sleep for a little while, and sleep makes me forget my reality.” She stopped and started to bawl.

Her story was almost identical to mine, except they didn’t leave on the same day. For me, it was different days, three months apart. Hers sounded like they both died in a car accident, but my dad died of cancer, and my mom followed months later, unable to bear the shock. I was left to fend for myself, but a good therapist recommended by my former high school teacher helped. The therapist was blunt, and I managed to get stronger after a few months.

“I know a good therapist who can help you,” I said, hoping she wasn’t too far gone.

“I’m not a crazy girl, and I don’t need therapy. I’m just in my mourning era.” After that statement, a great amount of vomit followed. Surprisingly, I wasn’t mad. I let her get it all out and didn’t mind cleaning up after her, especially since I’d earn a few bucks from it.

When I finished cleaning and putting the place back in order, I helped her up. She reeked of alcohol, but I didn’t mind. I was kind of attracted to her, and having a new friend my age wouldn’t hurt. I even thought about talking to my boss about hiring her. A smile curved my lips as I imagined her getting back on her feet and being around me.

“Let’s go to my place so I can clean you up.” She glanced at me and smiled.

“I’d say no if you were a boy,” she giggled. Sweet girl; life had just been cruel to her.

The walk home was quiet, except for the sound of our feet on the gravel-filled street. When we got to my place, I unlocked the door and helped her inside. It was a one-bedroom apartment. She staggered to the bed and collapsed on it.

“Your house is nice, but not nicer than mine. I’ll show you tomorrow,” she grinned adorably.

“She brags as well,” I joked, and she chuckled.

I had just made a friend, even though the circumstances were strange.

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