Drunk

The last patrons pack up their books and head out the doors. I follow closely, lock the large wooden double doors behind them and turn off the lights.

“Ready, Olive?”

“Yep,” Olive says, appearing out of nowhere.

I look after her and shake my head, wrapping my scarf around my neck and grabbing my bag.

Writer’s Block. Easily the best pub I have ever been in, for three reasons; 1: The walls are lined with pages of classic books, 2: the tabletops and bar were made of old book covers and 3: Harrison makes the best Ketel One martini in town and I never have to wait.

“Harrison, you handsome man, my brain is full of words and my hands are covered in book dust…” and before I can finish, a martini glass settles in front of me, one olive just like I like it.

“Mind reader.” I wink at him. I have to admit it does feel good to flirt.

Harrison smiles and hands Olive her martini and shakes his head. I feel a bit of a blush rise to my cheeks. Olive looks at me and nods her head in Harrison’s direction; the international sign for “go for it.”

“Olive,” I say, sternly.

“Oh relax, everyone here can see it. You’ve been coming in here with me and not a single man for three years and don’t think that Harrison doesn’t know it. He’s well aware and if you ask me, you should pounce on that.”

The town I live in is small enough for everyone to want to know everyone’s business. I don’t relish the idea of being part of the gossip.

I set my jaw and turn back to my martini, “Olive, honestly, don’t you have anything more important to fixate on than my love life?”

I catch Olive’s sly grin as she brings her glass to her mouth, then she stops and turns to me, “some things are important, like a fresh olive in a martini and getting you laid! Seriously, are you going to sit there and tell me you have no idea that Harrison has been pining over you since the day you ordered your first martini? Throw the man a bone! Don’t just do it for him, do it for me. Because if I have to listen to you wax poetic over a fictional dream man, whose very name you don’t even know, one more time, I may just take this toothpick and stab my eye out.” Olive finishes her rant by pretending to stab her eye with the little plastic sword, olive still attached.

“Geeze, tell me how you really feel Olive,” I say.

Although her words sting, they sting with truth. I’m hopeless. Harrison is great. I mean, really…Tall, not too muscular, hazel eyes that smile all the time…I have to face it, Harrison is just my type and I’ve been selfishly ignoring him and his advances for my books and silly dreams.

“Fine,” I say.

“Wait, whoa, really?” Olive asks, choking a bit on her martini.

“Yes, you’re right, but shut up, please? He’s coming back.” I say, nodding in Harrison’s direction.

“Say anything about what Matilda? About how you finally admitted you want to get in to Harrison’s pants?” Olive makes a point to say all of this quite loudly, loud enough to hear over the music.

With a mischievous grin, Olive turns to face the bar, “Oh, hi, Harrison, we were just talking about you.”

Olive brings the martini to her mouth and primly takes a sip.

My cheeks are burning and I can feel tears of embarrassment welling up. I have nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide, so I just take my drink and look away, hoping to disappear into the glass.

Harrison, leaning over the bar, smiles, “I knew it, come on Matilda, let me take you out.” There is no pleading in his voice.

“You know I don’t date, Harrison.” This isn’t a lie.

“I’m a good man, Matilda. You have nothing to fear from me. It’s just dinner.”

The honesty in his voice shakes me. I’m scared, not of him but of myself.

“Actually Harrison,” Olive pipes in, “Tild here has found her perfect man.”

The look I give her makes her squirm, but she continues.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but he is actually her dream man. Oh wait, he’s actually a dream, man. A figment of her imagination…”

Before she can continue, I run my elbow into hers hard enough to spill part of her martini. It works, shutting her up, for the moment. Harrison knowing, hopefully, when to throw in the towel, tosses his to Olive before turning back to me, smiling.

“Alright...well then, Olive, how ‘bout you?” Harrison asks.

Olive throws the towel in his face, “Pig.” The three of us laugh.

Harrison walks away to wash his towel and Olive, quietly this time, says, “Really Tild, you should just let him take you to dinner, see where it goes.”

I can hear her sincerity. I really have been defeated.

“Olive?”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s do a shot.

“Oh Barman?” Olive says, hailing Harrison.

***

The sound of my moan fills the walls of my room, echoing back and pounding against my temples. The inside of my mouth feels like leather and tastes like tequila. Flashes, like photographs, fill my mind and are immediately pushed out by the throbbing in my head.

I feel a pain in my side, against my rib cage. It’s the familiar wobbling of Chaucer’s paws climbing my side. I chance opening my eyes and instantly regret it when the oft-unfound Northwestern sun blares its way directly into my soul. Ugh, a hangover, and a wicked one to boot. Chaucer mews concern for me and flicks her tail, waiting for me to become human again and feed her.

I feel around for my phone and check the time, 8am…just enough time to shower and down some extra strength coffee before I have to head to work. First, I grab the bottle of ibuprophen in my nightstand and down a couple with a long luxurious gulp of stale water. A fumbling hunt for a cigarette brings me to the living room. Blissfully dim with the curtains drawn, I pass the couch, heading to the coffee table and there, my heart stops.

There he is, curled up, shirtless on my couch. Of all the things running thru my head, all I can muster is a quiet squeak, which may have been my unconscious effort not to throw up. I apparently drank the whole bar last night. Harrison stirs. I think of running then realize that, no, this is my house. I’m trapped.

I quietly backtrack a bit, take a seat on my overstuffed reading chair, hold my knees to my chest, and simply stare at him.

Harrison stretches out of the curl with a groan. I watch the flex of his abs, uncontrollably ogling, then, he stops abruptly. I can’t tear my eyes away from his chest.

He speaks, “Morning,” he smiles, finishing his stretch, “and how are you feeling this fine morning?” he finishes, oozing charm and ease, the ease that comes with old friendship.

I sit there, gaping, willing something witty to come out of my mouth, anything to break the silence, anything but vomit. I swallow hard and open my mouth, but only an odd gurgling sort of sound emanates, barely audible.

“You okay?” Harrison asks, sitting up.

I keep gawking, dropping my knees to the floor and leaning forward. I open my mouth to try again but nothing.

“Matilda, are you alright?” This time there is real concern in his voice.

Eventually I shake myself out of whatever hypnotic spell his chest held over me and answer, “Um, yes,” the words are weak.

Apparently, it’s been longer than I remember since seeing naked man flesh.

“Well, that’s good…”

“Harrison?”

“Yes darlin’?”

“What the hell are you doing on my couch?” My words find ground this time.

“You wouldn’t let me share your bed. You were quite adamant about it. I think I have a bruise actually,” he says, looking at the back of his arm, a wry grin on his face.

“Really…? So you brought me home?”

“Yes, there was no way I’d let you walk alone…that drunk. How’s your head?” He says pointing to me and reaching for his shirt.

“Screaming for coffee and a cigarette,” I say, spotting my pack just under Harrison’s leg, in the gap of the couch cushions. I make a move to snatch it and Harrison jumps.

“There they are!” I say and light one, “Coffee, Harrison?” I add, taking a drag.

I look up at him and catch his eye for a moment.

“I’d love some, lead the way,” he says, lighting his own cigarette.

I check the clock above the fireplace and notice the time, with a sheepish grin I turn back to Harrison, “would you mind making it? I have to shower before work.”

“Incredible, I would call in if it were me, but sure just tell me where…” His smile penetrates my headache, or perhaps the ibuprophen has kicked in, regardless, it leaves me a bit swoony.

“Uh, okay, thanks,” the words stumble out, “the coffee is in the freezer. The filters are by the coffee pot by the sink.” I point vaguely and head quickly to my room.

I catch sight of myself in the full-length mirror on the backside of my door and drop my head. I have mascara smudges, a black sort of crud in the corner of my eyes and my hair, normally a bit wavy, has grown a life of its own. All this, coupled with my threadbare superhero tee shirt and boxers, I am a sight. Apparently, I had enough wherewithal to get into my p.j.’s last night…maybe.

The water feels like a sort of rebirth. My skin tingles with the heat and I can feel my eyes widen a bit. Chaucer is waiting for me when I wrap the towel around myself and wipe the steam off the mirror.

Brushing my teeth, I try to remember the previous night. I dress slowly, the clock ticking. I do consider, albeit briefly, calling in. But, it’s the Library. It’s lovely and quiet, perfect for a hangover, and going to work gives me the perfect excuse to deflect Harrison.

I stop before opening the door, aware of what…who, is waiting on the other side. I take a deep breath and with a rush of adrenaline, my heart races and I open the door.

I head to the kitchen with Chaucer in tow, mewing to remind me to feed her. Harrison, shirt on but unbuttoned, is sitting at my table reading the newspaper. The sunlight is filtering through a crack in the curtains and hitting half his face. The image is calming and with it, an odd sense of longing settles over my heart and briefly, I think of how nice this picture would be every morning.

The smell of coffee pulls me out of the daydream and I head to the counter.

“Feel better?” he asks, setting the paper down. Chaucer takes this opportunity to jump up on the table and lay on the discarded paper.

I hold the counter and fill my mug carefully, trying to hide my blush, “yes, much,” I say smiling, barely able to look up at him.

It hits me there, in my kitchen, just how attractive Harrison is. The feeling is uneasy, not bad uneasy, but nervous uneasy. Like a crush, long suppressed has found its way to the surface. I lean against the counter and look up at him over my mug. I stare at the man in my kitchen, as though for the first time, Harrison. Sweet, charming, lovely Harrison.

“Would you like a lift to work, since I’m heading that way?” he asks, breaking my stare.

“If you wouldn’t mind, it would give me some time to actually drink my coffee and finish the final round of sobering up,” I say, lighting a cigarette, watching the smoke dance in the light.

I find myself lost in thought when I finally notice Harrison is standing right in front of me, dangerously close. He reaches across for the coffee pot, brushing my arm and I don’t move out of his way. His face is inches from mine. He is lingering. I look up at him, he locks eyes with me, and my breath catches.

Gradually, Harrison leans in closer, an arm on each side of me, against the sink. I will myself to say something but don’t. I can’t think of any reason this shouldn’t happen, so I hold my breath. The warmth of his breath growing closer to my mouth sends shivers everywhere; goose bumps surface on my arms…

Harrison’s lips are warm against mine, firm but tender. I think of pulling away and as though he can hear that thought, Harrison pulls me in closer, one hand on the small of my back and the other holding the side of my face. The kiss ends and Harrison pulls away, only briefly. He looks down and smiles, moving in for another kiss. I want to resist at first, but I relax and let go. I can’t remember the last time I was kissed like this, if ever. My knees grow weak, I want it to last forever, but then I would be late for work. Work!

I finally tear myself away, “You better take me to the Library or I will never hear the end of it from Olive.”

I give him a weak smile and try not to drool on myself. I take a big swig of coffee and set the mug down, and then Harrison grabs me once more, dips me back and kisses me on the landing.

“As you wish,” he says, setting me back on my feet properly and starting to button his shirt. It’s a moment before I can move again, the feeling having left my frontal lobe and legs all at once.

“Right then, let’s get you to work,” Harrison says, brushing past me back into the living room.

I stare at Harrison the entire drive. When we reach the Library, Olive is there waiting for me to unlock the door. I immediately regret not calling in as I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. I take a breath and turn to Harrison, “Thank you, for everything.” I smile and kiss him on the cheek.

As I turn to get out of his truck he pulls me back, “What are you doing after work Tild?”

I give him my most sincere smile and the honest answer, “going home and sleeping.”

Harrison looks dejected and I retort, “But Thursday, Thursday I am free after work.” I kiss his cheek again and get out of the truck with a small hop.

Harrison smiles down at me and winks, “Thursday, it is.”

The flushing of my cheeks feels good against the nip in the air. I shut the door and feel him watch me walk away, now to have Olive fill in the blanks of last night.

Olive is visually chomping at the bit to know more, but I take my sweet time unlocking the doors and bringing the Library to life.

“Honestly,” Olive says, “you can’t do this! You have to spill. You’re killing me!” Olive is hopping from one foot to another now, her blonde spikes never wavering.

“Honestly Olive,” I say, flicking on the last light switch, “nothing happened last night…” Olive catches my sheepish grin and elbows me.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing, I swear, he brought me home and slept on the couch. I remember nothing from last night, by the way.”

“I would guess not, I’m surprised you came in today, actually.”

“Well, I did think about it, especially after Harrison kissed me…” I say and wait for it…

Olive squeals a bit and slaps me on the back, “I knew it! You were going to keep me hanging all morning weren’t you?”

“Not at all. Oh, Olive, he is a damn good kisser. It was perfect, just what I needed. Hit perfectly on my emotional spectrum.”

Olive is on the edge of her stool, a pile of books precariously stacked by her arm.

“Well, good for you. I, as you well know, have a deviated spectrum, so who knows what would hit perfect on it...” I laugh and watch the pile of books teeter right off the edge of the desk.

“Olive, I can’t take you anywhere.” I say, helping pick up the scatter of covers.

The day passes by, as days do at the Library; the regular patrons come and piddle around, keeping me and Olive company, providing entertainment at times. The characters we get from town and the outskirts vary and resemble many of the fictional ones on the shelves we care for.

There is one patron though, Steve, who asks me out at least once a month. He's different; older, kinda creepy. He barely speaks and is balding and greasy. I think he's just really lonely. Sometimes I feel bad for him, but most of the time I just dread when he comes in. Like a stalker but harmless. Today, I am not in the mood for his weak attempt at flirting. The hangover is still lingering, as is the kiss from Harrison, still fresh on my lips, I have no time for Steve.

"Hi Matilda," he says, setting down a couple mystery novels on the desk.

"Hi Steve, just these two today?"

"Unless I can check you out too?" he asks, completely serious.

"Very funny Steve. Here are your books, due in three weeks." I hand him the due date slip and motion for the next patron in line.

"I could make you dinner." He just has to keep at it. I really don’t want to have to be stern with him. He’s like a puppy, a creepy, older man puppy, but still...

"Steve, thank you for all the attention, but I just don't date. Ever."

Steve's cheeks burn red.

"Look Steve, I'm sorry but really I don’t date. I like being alone. Being single."

"But if you did date?" he asks.

"I would…consider your invitation,” I lie, “have a good day, Steve."

"Okay, you too..."

I know he wants to say more, but instead, he picks up his books and leaves.

I turn to Olive, who, I know, heard the whole thing.

"Yikes," she says.

"He's so peculiar. I wish he would stop asking."

"I bet. I would too. Hell, I do wish he would stop asking, it's horribly awkward to watch."

"Thanks." I say, getting back to work.

Once the day is over and the doors locked, I bid adieu to Olive and head over to the little bodega for provisions.

At home, I unload my salmon and bottle of Pinot Noir. Chaucer is ecstatic to see me and even more so when she starts to smell the fish baking in the oven.

With dinner consumed and a glass of wine in hand, I make my way to my reading chair and curl up. On the table next to the chair, I have an old oil lamp. Although sort of a fire hazard, I love the warmth and smell it gives off, a gift from my Grandmother. She, always being concerned with my eyesight, bestowed it upon me to ward off my eventual blindness from reading too much.

I light the lamp; pull the throw over my legs and crack open a new book. Chaucer, full of salmon, climbs up on my legs and finds her comfy spot and starts cleaning her paws. I’ve been looking forward to this moment all day, but now that it’s upon me, I can’t concentrate.

The memory of the kiss, of Harrison, keeps creeping back in. The sudden guilt I feel is unnerving. I feel guilty. Guilty for, perhaps, leading Harrison on. I’m still not ready, not for him, not for something real. I still don’t trust myself. I haven’t healed yet. And I don’t want to lose Harrison as a friend. Maybe he would wait for me. Maybe he’d understand. Then, with the snowball effect, I start to doubt if he would understand or wait.

Finally, I give up on the book, a first for me, and take off my glasses. Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I try keeping any thoughts of Harrison at bay. Soon, before I realize it, I’m fast asleep, lamp lit and all.

Next Chapter: Chapter 4: Cliffside, A dream