Short Stories

Okay

"It's okay not to be okay, you know." A voice wakes her up from her frozen, sleepy, drunken state. A glance around tells her that she is in the bar, again, the same one as all those other times. The glass in front of her, almost empty, told her that she'd been drinking again, like she had been for days in a row. Weeks, even. She couldn't keep track. Mind cloudy, eyes hazy, she looked at the voice besides her. The voice had dark eyes and they looked at her like they cared. She looked away from the lie, voice on automatic when she answers: "I'm fine."

She misses the bartender shaking his head after hearing that, listening in on the conversation as he's drying glasses. Like no other he knows she's not fine, and he feels guilty for giving her drinks every time she comes in, crying. But he can't say no to a face that's so full of hurt, pain, not when the face is begging him to help her forget. He knows what it feels like, and he gives in, every time. Even today.

The voice besides the broken girl speaks again. "I can tell you're not fine. You sit here every day."

She curses under her breath. Voices aren't supposed to know that. The bartender knows, because he brings her oblivion, but he's the only one who can know. Nobody else can know. They don't need to know, because she's fine. If she repeats it often enough, it will become true.

"I'm fine, really."

The bartender and the owner share a look, and the bartender places a cup of black coffee in front of her. "Sober up, girl. You're not going to sit here and be drunk for yet another night, I won't let you."

And the voice adds: "I won't, either."

Reluctantly, she drinks the coffee, savouring the bitter taste that resembles the liquor she drinks here. She doesn't even like coffee; but then again, she doesn't like liquor either. She empties the cup, and another one. Both men look at her, drinking the black liquid, not saying a word. It's the first time in weeks that she drinks something non-alcoholic, and they silently celebrate the moment.

She wonders about the name of the bar tender as she places another empty cup on the bar. She knows for a fact that he's brought here home at least once; it's always hard to remember where she lives. Or sometimes, it's harder to actually get there. She's spent a couple of nights on the streets, unable to find her house, only to wake up in the morning and return to the bar without going back home.

The coffee helps, the haze clears, and she realizes that she forgot the rule. Pay every three drinks. Her hands try to find her purse, hanging from her stool; but she's still drunk, loses balance, and falls off. Yet, two hands catch her; belonging to the voice, and they push her back up. "Don't worry about paying babe; it's on me." The voice says, steadying her on her stool. She looks at the voice, realizes that brown curls go with the dark eyes and husky voice. His eyes are as dark as the third cup of coffee she's sipping now.

"You've been sitting here for weeks. Coming in crying, leaving stumbling. It's safe to say you're not okay."

She can't help herself. "You're not supposed to know."

"But I do. I know. So now I can help you, okay?" And the bartender adds: "We can both help you."

She ponders on this, sipping her coffee. She fails to see the logic, and suddenly it feels like it's too warm in the bar, people are too close, the noise is too loud. She pushes back her stool, grabbing her purse, and before either one can react, she's out, swaying on her feet but making her way out of the bar, into the cool air.

The two men see her leaving, swaying on her feet, but walking out. She hasn't walked out in days; they usually have to carry her outside by the time the bar closes. Lately, they've been bringing her home, ever since they discovered her sleeping on the street one morning. They know that her apartment is trashed, that the key lies in plant next to her door, that her bedroom is the second door on the left. They know that there isn't any food in her kitchen, and that the only time she eats is when she's given fries at the bar. They know that she threw all photos against the wall, that she threw all bottles on the floor, probably regretting it afterwards. They know that she's alone and that she never receives any mail. They know that she doesn't even remember their names; let alone them bringing her home every night for two weeks straight. They don't care. They always saw her at the bar, dancing and laughing with friends. Then she stopped coming, and when she came in again, she was drunk and in tears. It's been like that for more than a month. They know so much, but they don't know what happened, what changed. They only know her face, filled with hurt, as she waits for the bar to open up. But they also know that one day; she will be fine again, like she says. All she has to do is accept their help.

The next day she's not sitting in front of the bar, waiting for it to open. The bartender has been serving drinks for two hours already when she comes in. She looks like she showered, but her hair is still a mess and there are dark bags under her eyes. There are tears on her face, but not as many as the day before. Still, every time she's sober, she remembers, and the memories are too much for anyone to handle. She orders the usual as she sits down on her stool, keeping her face down. She remembers last night, obviously; she wasn't even sure if she should come here. But the memories were too much, and thus she found her feet carrying the same road she always took.

He puts another coffee in front of her. She doesn't know that there's a shot vodka in it, but she tastes it, and smiles, looking up at the bartender.

"I'm not letting you get wasted again", he tells her.

"I know", she answers. "I wasn't sure if I should come, because I knew you wouldn't let me. But I couldn't take it alone, and now I'm here again."

It's the first time she spoke such a long sentence, and her voice was clear, not struck with tears or croaking from the alcohol. She had a clear voice, but he could hear the pain she was feeling.

"You don't have to face it alone, you know. Just remember that you don't need alcohol to face it."

She shakes her head at that. "I can't face it."

Someone slips into the stool next to her. It's the same guy as last night, keeping her from falling down, talking to her. She acknowledges him, but doesn't know what to say. The three of them are silent, the bartender serving drinks to other customers but always looking at her, always watching.

Moments pass, and she asks for a shot. He shakes his head. "You can do without, I'm sure of it. I'm free tonight; we'll be there for you. Just be sober, alright?"

She doesn't reply, but her head is down, and after a while, both men realise that tears are falling down her cheeks. The bartender serves his last drinks before someone else takes over his shift, and the two of them sit beside her, silently.

After a while, one of them breaks the silence. "You'll be fine, you know. Not now, not tomorrow or next week, but one day, you will. And we'll be there for you. We'll be there with you. You're not alone."

Habit makes her say: "I'm fine."

The bartender shakes his head. "No, you're not. You're not okay, you're not fine. But it's okay not to be okay."

She stays silent for a while, then nods. "It's okay not to be okay."

And then: "But I will be okay."