Page 1 of The Two of Us

1

NOW

I don’t know how I ended up hiding behind the bar. I mean, if we’re talking literally, then yes, I’m very aware of how I got myself into this situation because I practically somersaulted over the cool marble in a matter of seconds. Perfect landing. Ten out of ten. Olympic-worthy.

Move over, Simone Biles.

But now that I’m here, I can’t help but wonder about the series of events in my life that have gotten me to this point. The point where I’m hiding behind a bar counter next to the bottles of vodka, trying to ignore the sticky residue touching my back.

Don’t get me wrong, the man in the bathroom was a great time. He was nice enough, and I liked the juxtaposition of his straight teeth and crooked nose. His lips were soft and his large hands swallowed the small of my back. Plus, I thought he was a gentleman for giving me one of his tequila shots even though it was buy one, get one night.

Apparently, I’m a landing pad for men who do the bare minimum.

Everything was going swimmingly until he asked me out on a date. Which was comical, because I’m pretty sure everyone who hooks up in a bathroom knows the bathroom hook-up rule: thou shall not ever see each other again after this. So I tugged my skirt back down, claimed I was receiving an important phone call even though my phone never rang and told him to hang tight.

And when I saw him exit the restroom before I could close out my tab, I quickly made eye contact with the barback.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

Cue the Olympic-worthy somersault.

The barback with the full sleeve tattoos only sighed, like this happened to her a lot and I hated being added to her list of people who do weird shit at bars. She started to tell me I had to leave, but she must have seen the straight-teeth, crooked-nose guy searching for me because her nose scrunched in disapproval before looking down at me.

“Baby girl, you take all the time you need.”

So I do take all the time I need and for all I know, it’s been hours because alcohol makes time an arbitrary concept. I’ve become Harry Potter, except instead of my address being The Cupboard Under the Stairs, it’s The Floor Under the Bar. I live here now. Does that make the bottles of vodka near my head my property?

“You can come out now, he’s gone.”

I lift my hand to cup my ear so I can hear her over the music and it’s covered in something wet and unidentifiable. Surprisingly, I’m able to hold back my gag.

“I said, you can come out now,” she says, louder this time.

“Oh. Great.”

I slowly rise to my feet, groaning against the sensation of a million needles poking at my half-asleep legs. I cast a glance around the bar and sure enough, the woman with the tattoos didn’t only have the bar’s back, but mine as well. I attempt to hop over the counter but thanks to the excessive sitting and the exorbitant amount of alcohol in my system, it’s not nearly as impressive as the first time.

I take back what I said, Simone.

“Thanks. I know this probably isn’t what you signed up for when you came into work tonight.”

“No worries,” she says, drying a martini glass. “Happens all the time.”

I cringe. “Really? People get behind the bar all the time?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Jeez, well in that case…” I pull a crumpled twenty from my pocket and stick it in her tip jar. She snorts like this also isn’t the first time someone’s done that, and I sigh. So much for being original.

I grab my phone from my bag and call the only number I have favorited on my contacts list. Playing favorites with phone numbers feels immature, like having a top ten during the Myspace days, but it comes in handy when you’re drunk and the apps on your phone resemble hieroglyphics. She answers on the second ring.

“Where are you this time?”

Her voice sounds tired, and I feel guilty for calling her this late, but not guilty enough to try to make it home on my own. The last time I tried to get home while drunk, I ended up taking the R-line to Roosevelt Island. If you want to scare the shit out of a drunk person, have them end up in a location completely surrounded by water when they’re supposed to be in the concrete jungle.

“Cross Tavern,” I pout, even though she can’t see me.

“Be there in a few.”

---