Between Two Eternities || Travis Hamonic

(31) A Cliché in a Corner Booth

"The minute I heard my first love story,
I started looking for you, not knowing
how blind that was.
Lovers don't finally meet somewhere.
They're in each other all along."

-Rumi, The Illuminated Rumi

I am passed another shot glass containing vodka, but also mixed with something else. Something I could taste overwhelmingly, but couldn't quite put my finger on its name.

Whatever it is, it makes me feel alive.

The burning cool liquid hits every part of my throat along the way, yet makes me crave it more and more once it's effects kick in.

The effects.

We were lectured about them in high school, and middle school for that matter. The alcohol poisoning, the drunk car accidents, liver cancer ...

But those aren't the effects I'm talking about. I am talking about the kind of effects that make you completely unaware of yourself but aware that you're having the time of your life - even if you're just laying across a bar stool, begging for more booze.

More often than not, the bartender cuts you off under these effects. So then you turn to cute guys who'll do anything for a good flirt.

Yet another glass is pushed into my outstretched hand. I humor the fleeting assumption that a small group has gathered around me. At the University of Wyoming, I was always a hit at off campus bars. Everyone wanted a glimpse at the new girl. Though a vast state, everyone knows everyone and girls from a big northern city like New York have a way of standing out - even if they aren't looking to (me).

Back home in the city, things are normal. I'm nothing special in a crowded, dirty club highlighted by tight skirts and cheap boob jobs.

Again and again I down shots in the memory of college life in the middle of America.

As soon as I slam down an empty glass on the bar, I slam another down my throat. No one stops me. Not even Bobby, who is getting equally as drunk I assume.

I know I said I was giving up alcohol, but the two days with the vision of Travis have sent me spiraling. I need something to make me forget about all the happiness he gave me.

I look to my right, with my head tilted back and a shot glass to my lips, and find that it has been Jared feeding me shots all this time. He's so drunk, he's actually paying attention to me. How about that? It makes me wanna laugh out loud that Jared is still around me. He reminds me of my friends in Wyoming; they only hang out at parties with people just as drunk as them. It's a tough selection process.

Me and Jared's history is not the greatest, which makes me question his motives for the generous purchase of ongoing shots. It's vodka too, the expensive stuff. He doesn't remember the night he fed me tissues as fast as he's feeding me shots, or if he does remember, he hasn't said anything about it and acts virtually the same around me. I know enough to know that Jared doesn't have nearly as good a job as Bobby has lined up.

To see his best friend permanently moving to Los Angeles must really be psyching him out. In his right mind, he would never pay me any attention when he could be with a girl he has a shot to sleep with later tonight.

My thoughts are interrupted when my stomach starts to convulse with alcohol. The pile of tiny, used glasses in front of me is having the same effect of a cinemagraph, those pictures whose designs give the illusion of movement.

Jared himself drags me to the empty, dirty women's bathroom when I gag. He comes inside without hesitation; either because he is too drunk to realize or because he's been in so many before that it just doesn't phase him anymore. Probably both.