Page 3 of Damaged

But it’s strong and doesn’t raise eyebrows the way a woman walking around with a double shot of whiskey will.

I want the two and a half ounces of liquor to be coursing through my capillaries already. To dull the world and my thoughts. Make all the ceaseless chatter around me go silent.

I’m not a heavy drinker, but that strong buzz you get just before being drunk sounds like heaven right now.

Anything to shut my brain up. And shut up it should. I have a well-enough paying job in the field of my choice. That’s a unicorn these days. Isn’t that what the world pressures us to have?

A career that fits our passions. The end all be all.

Maybe. But what I don’t have is people. I’m feeling it this year. It’s my first winter single in five years. It doesn’t help that I’m without family in the States. My dad is in Chile. My mom is in London. I’m in New York, in between, with one cat and no boyfriend.

I sigh and take a gulp of my martini like no one is watching.

Burn, baby, burn.

I go back to the window I was standing at before I went to that statue’s rescue.

I watch the snow fall slowly. It’s beautiful, but there’s something lonely about the thick, slow flakes. It’s the kind of weather where you want to lay your head on your man’s chest while movie marathoning on the couch.

I’ll go home and heat up kung pao chicken at eleven p.m.

Booyah.

But then I’ll probably be reminded of sex anyway. The top floor of my building, the one directly above mine, has been converted into a single 15,000 square foot penthouse apartment.

And Casanova himself moved in.

Or Caligula.

I’ve been forced to listen to my upstairs neighbor play naked twister with a sorority house. At least that is what Iassumehe’s doing, from the noises that come from above.

It’s all giggles and slamming and screams and,oh yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!

Shoot me, please. I don’t sound like that in bed. Icansound like that, yes. Yes, yes, yes. But I’ve seldom been taken there.

I turn from the snow to scan the room again. The gallery is modern. White walls. Glass railings on the stairs. Minimalist everything so that the focus is on what’s being sold.

It’s not a very homey place to work. It’s more like an operating room than anything. A place for sterile bartering. I look at the men. Most are suited up, some of the rich tech-types are in black T-shirts. Nearly every man has a date.

Even away from the action by the large windows, it’s still too noisy where I stand for my mood.

If I’m going to be stuck here at work, I want silence.

I had my chance at a sale tonight, and I’m done now. But I suppose my full glass of gin was my first white flag of surrender. I go up to the third floor of the gallery, where we keep our least-expensive pieces. Right now, there’s a large collection of modern art on display.

The halls are empty here. In the rooms are nothing but paintings and backless black leather benches set before them.

My heels click softly. It’s quiet enough that I can hear my own soft breathing. I’m alone, and now I really don’t have to worry about being judged for drinking too quickly.

I get my martini over with, downing the rest of the thing. My face puckers and I shake my head vigorously as I swallow.

Blah.

I hiccup once like it might come back up and rethink my life choices that led me to this moment. I’m definitely self-medicating, but if it’s a once in a while thing, it’s probably alright.

My stomach burns as I walk, and I stop when I reach the large display room. There’s a man here.

He’s in a black suit, and his back is to me while he sips whiskey and stares at one of our few paintings.

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