Drown | Ruby da Cherry

5. Washout

May 7, 2015

The show was at a small bar in the French Quarter. As soon as I walked in the door, the smell of alcohol hit me in the face. After we made our rounds, we planned to find somewhere to eat since we didn't want to fill up on snacks and call it a night.

"Mariela, this is my friend, Cody," you said before a sip of your drink. It sounded nice hearing someone say my name right and not force some stupid nickname on me. Cody asked how we met and we recounted the story of Scott punching me in the face. By now, the bruise had faded to a yellow splotch, which was easily covered by makeup. The spot was still tender to the touch, though.

Afterward, you asked me what I thought of some of the posters and artwork on the wall. Most of the art was abstract and utilized bright, vivid colors and geometric shapes. The music on the other hand was loud and I couldn't understand it.

"I liked the strawberry," you joked, referring to a painting of a peculiar yonic strawberry that we probably studied for too long.

We didn't stay long at the bar. After the initial bombardment of alcohol scents wore off, the bar started to smell like old books, which sometimes has a nostalgic pleasantness; it just smelled musty to me when there were no books to be seen. The show didn't last that long so we left as soon as it was over.

The sky had morphed to a blueish-pinkish hue with purple clouds marbling across, like an oil spill on the asphalt. The wind had picked up, but the humidity was stagnant. I drew my cardigan around me while we walked around, looking for a place to eat until we happened upon a hole-in-the-wall diner.

"How does this place look?" you asked as we read the menu posted outside the entrance. I nodded before we headed inside.

We started to get to know each other better over appetizers. It was so easy to talk with you. Charismatic, if there was ever a lag in the conversation, you could easily reel it back in. There wasn't a moment where I felt awkward or like you'd rather be doing anything else than talking to me. We started talking about our families when you asked me if I had any other siblings.

"I'm the oldest," I said, prompted by his questions. "I have two brothers: Omar (the baby) and Andres. And two sisters: Mercedes and Isabel." I counted out. You started telling me about your brother and sister until our entrée came out. You were eating your French fries, one by one, and you asked me why my friends had ditched me at the party. In my state, you said I would just get upset and call Hannah "annoying", but not actually say what happened.

"I didn't really want to go to the party in the first place; I like my alone time since I work so much but Hannah keeps forcing me to go out with her. I try to make the most of it but Hannah got a little pissy with me about it. Anyway, she said something all rude about my family ('cause, ya know, her parents' divorce 20 years ago is totally the same thing as what happened to my parents), so I wasn't even going to argue and just left it." I started to get irritated recounting Hannah's words, but it's not like I wasn't used to it. 

"Wait," you interjected. "What happened to your parents?"