The smoke curls from her lips weaving through the air like an exotic dancer whose hips must cling to a hidden rhythm. The chair is sticking to her bare thighs, so she grabs the edge of the bar and shifts her weight to let the cool air reach the sticky heat of her legs. Slowly, with one finger, she traces the condensation on the rim of the martini glass, absently nodding to her friend seated next to her. the woman's words hang in the air, briefly, waiting for recognition, then deftly fall to the floor. Because, the only thing that is real in this place is the feel of the smooth glass beneath her forefinger and the sweet staleness of the cigarette as she moistens her lips. This night and this seat at the bar is nothing new. It seems that escapism works best garnished with olives.
Kate works days at a little restaurant down the street and spends most of her nights clinging to these vinyl seats and the slow burn of alcohol. She gave up trying to be successful some time ago. It became hard enough..to just be. Beside her, Laura bursts into hysterical laughter at her own sordid story. Something about waking up next to a man she didn't know. Laura grows silent. Kate realizes that she has taken too long to respond. She has taken too long to verify the validity or hilarity of the story. Seemingly unphased, Laura continues, her voice slowly fading into a could of smoke and throbbing music. Kate takes a drag from the cigarette and wonders what kind of cancer will come first. She has been playing chicken for a number of years, and no longer fears death. She doesn't welcome it either.
"Why are we here?, Kate asks.
"Because the drinks are good and the lighting provides a certain amount of anonymity.
"No, I mean...why are we HERE...here, here. Why is our existence at this precise moment important, if at all."
"Sweet Jesus. Can we not do this tonight? Please?...Okay? The last time you slipped into a philosophical rant, we both wound up sobbing on some sketchy curbside street corner and you threw up all over my shoes."
"It's not my fault that clarity comes most fervently when I drink, or that it is such a downer."
"True. However it is your fault when you choose to bring it up and then bring me down with you."
Kate smirks. "I suppose, but you are the one who willingly volunteered to spend an evening of anonymity with me...the downer...correct?"
"Shut up and drink your drink."
Laura moans for emphasis. This is one noise Kate is quite used to. It is a low guttural growl that lets her know that she has gone too far for Laura; that she has let too much of herself show. That is what that sound means.
In an attempt to save the evening, Kate makes some comment about two of the men seated at the end of the bar. Laura giggles, takes a sip from her drink eyeing them approvingly. Kate analyzes Laura determining that the atmosphere has lost the strange tension that always arises when the performance falters. She now seems to have chosen the right words, the right facial expression, the appropriate amount of life shining in her eyes--and so all is forgotten. All the words which slipped precariously from her mouth are now dead on the floor. Her teeth hurt from smiling.
