The Two Kinds

There are two kinds of people: drunks and survivors of drunks.

Which are you?

She lifts herself off the cold, tiled floor with the aid of her new best friends: porcelain, brick wall and wooden door. Her body's willingly trapped between limbo; the larger limbs feel numb and foreign while the smaller ones tingle with electricity. It's the smaller limbs that let her know she's alive, that remind her of where she is. Once outside the four walled room, she stumbles to the sink and blinks. She loses her breath and as she throws her head up again, she catches a glimpse of her blurry self staring back as the water slides down her rose pink cheek and she watches as the mascara sticks heavy to her eye lashes, daring her to blink again. A hand full of paper towels comes to her rescue like a New York make-up artist and fixes the mess the alcohol has caused. 

Leaving the room of truth and judgement behind, she soaks in the warmth, the buzz and the stink of life as she straightens her back. She steadies herself on the heels that hold onto her with the force of a child to its mother and with one unsteady foot in front of the other, she fools the eyes that watch her and she reeks of class and sophistication. The bar stool wraps its unseeing arms around her waist and makes her feel balanced while the bar counter moves towards her, beckoning her to lean just a little closer. She notices no one else in the room, not even the gentle pushing of people standing next to her. She has forgotten if she is with someone or if she came alone and to hide the confusion she hunts for the barman's eyes. 

He knows what he wants, he has been watching the light black material brush against her skin as she sways from side to side. He momentarily misplaced her, but a good hunter never truly takes his eyes off the prize. She hasn't noticed him. In fact, she hasn't noticed anyone. He watches as she owns the bar, the room, the people. He is intrigued by her confident manner, the way she owns everything and nothing at the same time. 

He is steady, balanced and clear headed as he contemplates his next move.

He takes his eyes off the prize (but never his mind) and focuses on the game in front of him. He just has to place the black ball into the right middle pocket and then he can make the biggest move. He tried to drown out the noise, the smoke, the alcohol. He ignores his friends drunken taunts and allows everything to slow down in his sober state. He wins. He smiles. Turning to ensure that the prize is still there, ready to be taken, he notices that she is gone. He walks the rooms with a confident stride and allows the texture, sounds and smells to fill his senses. 

She wakes up to the rays reaching out to her and she can feel the weight of her usually comfortable blankets. She pushes them off her and tries to sit up but the pain that courses through her skull makes her stop and wince. The half drank water she  finds next to her bed comes to her rescue like a lover longing for that intimate kiss and she allows herself to drink in that kiss. Blurry eyed, body stiff, memory jaded and senses cringing at the smell of the night before, she hides beneath the blanket and wishes the light away as she closes her eyes to sleep. 

He sips his tea and fingers the edge of the newspaper but his mind isn't focused on the ink that smudges the pages. He looks into the street and wonders if he will recognize the prize he momentarily misplaced. He wills the light to stay as he searches the crowd for her.

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