1, 2, 3, drink!
Bottom of the ninth. No, not the baseball game. Ninth glass
of beer. You can’t remember how many shots she’s had in between.
It is her birthday party. She said she wants to “get krunk”
tonight. Forget everything. This is
her day. Her day, so everything she says goes. Not that that doesn’t happen
every other day, but today is special. Today is her day. Her word is law.
She invited her ex. When she told you, you had half of a
mind to shove her into the bathroom and then barricade the door, then force her
to think long and hard about what she’s almost done to herself and how thankful
she should be to you for saving her from the disaster. A disaster you’d have to
clean up afterwards.
Unfortunately, she had been prepared.
1,
2, 3, drink!
She’s slurring on words. She won’t remember this tomorrow.
Or ever. She’s not a drinker. How she’s still standing is beyond you.
Her ex is smiling. You clench your fist. Take a sip of your
whiskey coke, then force your eyes on the strange men who’ve invited themselves
to the party. She likes the attention, but there has to be a limit, right?
1
2
3 drink!
She’s been pouring vodka shots all night. She hates vodka.
One of the strange guys sidles up next to you, asking you
why you have such a natural bitch face.
1, 2, 3,
drink!
You ignore him.
He’s persistent.
His hand nurses a glass, and the other rests on your bottom.
You pull away.
He follows.
1, 2, 3, drink!
Hands are grabbing now. Forceful. Unyielding.
Talk to me, bitch. You’re pretty.
1,2,3,drink!
Come on, loosen up that pretty face, or—he whispers—would
you like me to loosen it up for you?
123drink!
Don’t ignore me, you bitch. Thinking you’re above everyone
else. Look at me when I’m talking to you, you whore!
1, 2, 3, smash!
He slumps over.
Her ex is the only one to see it. Everyone else is still
drinking, laughing, yelling, dancing, whirling.
A moment of silence, and he raises his glass to you.
1,
2, 3, drink!
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