Page 47 of Every Sweet Thing Is Bitter

“Did you know her?”

“What?”

He scrambles for the right words. “I mean you’re dressed like you’re in mourning. For Mrs. Byrd.”

I try to down half the vodka soda in one gulp, but my gag reflex betrays me mid-swallow. I manage only a tiny sip and expel the rest back into the glass, where it mixes with my spit to create a cloudy, viscous mixture. “My plants are dying.”

“They … well, they must have been dear to you?”

“More dear to me than my parents.”

He trundles out from behind the bar, beers in tow. The men at a nearby pool table whoop when he approaches them.Perfect timing, kid!They aren’t worried about dead plants or dead mothers. Their only concerns are what beer to drink and which freakish athlete their basketball team will draft. Again I check my phone and again there is nothing from my sisters.

“So, listen …” The bartender’s sheepish glance gives away his question before he can even ask. “I wanted to … well, I think you’re really pretty, and—”

“Where’s the bathroom? I’m about to piss myself.” My words barely sound like English. They’re muted by the thunderous booing as the Knicks announce their pick. I love the time-honored tradition of booing teams from New York. I join in with my own hoots of disapproval. Fuck the Knicks.

He directs me down a dank hallway. I keep my hand on the wall for balance until I’m locked inside the single-occupancy bathroom. The urinal overflows. The mirror above the sink is broken, honeycombed around the edges by missing shards of glass, cracks thin like cobwebs radiating out from the center. Someone has written profanities where the missing glass should be.SLUT. BITCH. MOTHERFUCKER.I grab a pen from my purse and writeCUNTacross them all.

I lower the toilet lid and sit. My knees are drawn to my chest in a self-embrace to keep me from toppling onto the grimy floor.A few minutes ago, I was comfortably drunk, rapturously drunk, delighted to be beyond the tentacles of reality, but the longer I sit, the faster the alcohol catches up with me. That’s the problem with drinking. It feels good until it doesn’t.

I hold the phone to my ear. I might be too drunk to spell my own name, but I still have enough presence of mind to know that getting behind the wheel right now would be suicide. I call Sara, Zoe, Connor, but no one picks up. I am left with one uneasy ally to call, and of course, he answers on the second ring.

“I wasn’t expecting to hear from you tonight.”

“Hi, Daniel.”

“You sound like you’re in a cave.”

“I am in a cave.” I talk slowly to make myself a fraction more intelligible. “I’m … spelunking deep into a cave of abject human misery.”

“Spelunking deep into the bottle sounds more like it.”

“I need a ride back to Sara’s.”

“Where are you?”

“Tyre,” I say. “The pool hall. I’ve been admiring the tires of Tyre.”

“The what?”

I rest my chin between my knees, but it does little to alleviate the sensation of rocking back and forth like I’m on a boat. “The … they collect tires. Tires, from your car. Because the town is called Tyre, get it? Like the city in … Lebanon, I think? Somewhere in the Middle East. The birthplace of Fido.”

“That was Dido, Providence.”

“If you’re not going to give me a ride, tell me now so I can go stand on the side of the road with my thumb out.”

He allows a few seconds of silence to pass, long enough for me to wallow in embarrassment before throwing me a lifeline. “It’ll take me half an hour to get there,” he says over jangling keys.

“I won’t move a muscle.”

To call myself three sheets to the wind is generous. The world is swimming. It barely registers when the pool hall erupts into cheers as the Nuggets announce their pick. The stranger beside me offers a high-five, mistaking my glassy-eyed stare at the television as rapt attention; I miss and nearly break his nose with the heel of my hand. I cheer loudly and yell nonsense at the screen. I bemoan the loss of my peace lilies to everyone within earshot. By the time Daniel escorts me out of the bar, even the bartender is relieved.

In his car, I miss twice before successfully buckling my seatbelt. My words tumble out half-formed, a potter’s clay not yet fired in the kiln. “You’re the only person who answered my call. Isn’t that pathetic?”

“It’s a weeknight,” he deadpans. “People work.”

“People work, ooh, aren’t you just so down to earth? I have a job, you know. A real one. I pay taxes.”

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