The Bar

The room was dimly lit, the small overhead lights casting shadows in the corner.  It reeked of stale beer and fresh cigarette smoke, but not even the worst odors bothered her today.  She was fixated, intent on just getting to a seat and having a drink.  She found an empty stool at the bar, sat down, and waved over the bartender.

"What's your pleasure?"  The bartender had a deep, raspy voice that sent a chill through her.  She squinted at him, feeling like she had seen him somewhere, but she couldn't place him.

"Tequila Rose" she responded.  He nodded his head, grabbed a short glass, and poured an overly generous amount.

"Bottoms up," he said with a smile as he placed it in front of her.  She raised her drink in a toast, and took a gulp.  The sweet strawberry liquor slid down her throat easily with a small after-burn from the tequila.  She closed her eyes and savored the taste.

Keeping her eyes closed, she thought about the day.  Not a good day, she reflected.  She had awakened to thunder and rain, wanting to just roll over and pull the covers up tight.  But there were things to do, so that just wasn't in the cards.  Laundry, dishes, work; they all seemed like simple tasks individually, but put together it was overwhelming.  The depression was back, and she knew if she didn't motivate herself to get moving and take a shower that the morning before work would a wash.  But motivation was not to be found; she grabbed her phone from the bedside and clicked on her Netflix app.  Settling under the covers, she streamed several episodes of "SisterWives" and allowed herself to get lost in the pain of other for a few hours.

Opening her eyes and taking a deep breath, she took another taste.  She started to feel warmth all over her body, the comfortable presence of alcohol streaming through her veins.  She looked again at the bartender, intent on figuring out how she knew him.  She studied his shaggy hair cut, the hair that she could see peeking out from beneath his long sleeved shirt, the devilish smile that he threw to her from down the counter.  She just couldn't place him.  Was he a student at her school?  A colleague with a night job?  Did she go to high school with him?

One more swallow and she emptied her glass.  She put it back on the counter with a clink, and he sauntered back down the bar.

"One more?" he asked.

She nodded her head in response.

"This one's on the house," he stated as he again filled the glass beyond the normal limit.

"I feel like I know you," she said hesitantly.

"Really," he responded with a smile.  "I am pretty sure you do."

She cocked her head to the side and looked again.  His eyes burned into her.  It was almost as if there was a flash of light and an image flashed before her.  Eyes widening, she shook her head as if to erase the image.  She felt iciness stream through her arms and legs as goosebumps appeared.  The image was of her dreaded Lion; the Lion that came to taunt her whenever things were about to get really bad.  Her mind raced.  She thought for sure she was imagining things.  Maybe she had had too much to drink.  Maybe it was lack of sleep and too much pressure.  A touch on her arm from him pulled her back into reality.

"You remember me," he smirked.  His hand remained in place and she was frozen.  The Lion, her Lion, was like poison to her soul.

"Don't touch me," she whispered, but she found she was not able to move her arm away.  He was mesmerizing.

"How we need another soul to cling to," he quoted from Sylvia Plath.

She caught her breath  They had been down this path before, throwing Plath quotes back and forth.  He had won; she had almost lost her life.

"I won't do this again," she said under her breath.

He started to laugh, a laugh deep from his belly that had an eerie tone to it.  Tension raised in her whole body; she stood up to leave the bar.

"I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood," he quoted Plath again he grabbed her hand.

She stopped in her tracks.  She didn't have the energy, the will, the drive to fight today.  He continued to hold onto her hand, and gently tugged on it to get her to return to the bar.  Dumbfounded, she turned around and sat back down.  She knew she could not win.  She knew she wasn't strong enough.  And she knew the Lion knew all of this.

He nudged the glass of Tequila Rose closer to her.

"Just drink," he stated in a victorious tone.  He was well aware of the fact that if he could just get her to drink some more, she would be his.  He took a towel and began to wipe down the counter.  She followed his direction and finished the glass in one shot.  She hung her head, defeated, empty, a shell of who she used to be.

She thought for a moment, and her own Plath quote coming to mind.  "I want to kill myself, to escape from responsibility, to crawl back abjectly into the womb. "

Tears escaped from her eyes. 

"I am done," she whispered to herself.  She laid her head down on the bar and closed her eyes once more.