Page 141 of Inflame

I grab ahold of Nic’s arm and use his body like a train to push through the crowd. Everyone is smart enough to back away and make room for us. I squeeze into an opening at the bar and wave over the regular bartender like I have stock in the place.

“I need the cheapest beer you have on tap and the worst tasting whiskey that exists in this hellhole,” I say. “Oh, and one of everything on the appetizer menu.”

“And for you?” He eyes me with a smirk.

“A margarita, of course!” I turn to Angie and give her a look. “Make that two!” I call back.

“So you want to get me drunk and take advantage of me?” Nic asks, shadowing me from behind.

“No, I want to get you drunk so you will stop pointing your nose up like you are better than this place.”

“It’s unsafe here.”

I turn around, placing my back against the bar. “Quit thinking about work. Just relax your shoulders and enjoy the financial freedom that cheap beer gives to people.”

He throws back his head and laughs. “Well, I can’t wait to take the first sip of financial freedom.”

“Wait no longer,” the bartender says behind us, placing four drinks down onto the bar’s surface for the three of us.

There is nothing fancy about the margaritas served here, yet they are so good. Just cheap tequila and secret sugary lime mixture over ice.

Nic places some cash onto the bar and tells the bartender to keep the change.

“Thanks for the drink,” I say, giving Nic a weak smile. I watch as he takes a swig from his beer and resists making a face—even though I know the struggle is real. “How does it taste?”

“Like liquified cardboard.”

“Yum,” Angie chimes in, giggling. “You are definitely Graham’s brother.” She changes her voice to be more masculine. “‘I only drink craft beer.’”

I laugh over her impersonation and do one of my own in my man voice. “I only like cigar lounges with better ambience.”

Angie and I are laughing so hard that we are snorting. Every time we glance at Nic, we go back to losing it. He is so stiff tonight.

Bar stools free up, and I climb up onto one awkwardly, probably flashing anyone who decides to watch. Nic and Angie sandwich me in, and we sip on our low shelf liquor. Well, Nic is done with his before I can really get comfortable on the stool. Short girl problems.

Open Mic Night features local artists and poetry readers from all around Portland. The clientele averages around the age of twenty-two, but there is a thirty-something crowd that seems to frequent the venue, probably on the prowl for young dates.

“Do you spot anyone we know?” I ask.

“No. And it’s not like we graduated that long ago.”

Nic clears his throat beside me, and I look over at his expression of indifference. I wish he would tell me why he is so moody lately. I also hope that sex can fix it, as it is my only superpower.

After half a drink, I cut myself off, feeling lightheaded and not my best self. I lean my body weight against the bar top and listen as the next performer is announced. When the tall drink of water makes it onto the stage, Angie and I suck in air through our teeth. At least we both can still appreciate the male form—no matter what stage we are in of life.

“Really, ladies? Are you really checking out guys here?” Nic says, looking uncomfortable.

“Oh stop,” Angie scolds. “You know I’m deliriously happy with your brother. Plus, women can check people out without it being creepy like you guys all seem to make it.”

“Hey, don’t stereotype me,” Nic says laughing. “I have feelings too.”

I get the bartender to bring me a glass of ice water and guzzle it down with just a few gulps. The food arrives, and we snack on the grease-filled appetizers. As soon as the first piece hits my stomach, I feel queasy and stop before I get sick again. All of my work at cleansing toxins from my body will be for nothing if I destroy my insides with this one meal. I ask for some celery and carrots that I know they use to garnish their hot wings baskets.

Angie has moments of sadness when I glance at her, and I know she misses Graham. She once told me that when he is away, it is like her heart is only half beating. I am positive Graham feels the same way about her.

Nic tenses beside me, and I can tell he is counting down the minutes until we leave. I thought being here would feel nostalgic. Instead, I feel like I have already moved on. That being bumped into constantly and having splatters of beer spilled on me is no longer what I would call fun.

More acts make it to the stage, and the volume at which the sound system is set to is almost deafening. I feel my brain pulsating.

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