Tough Skin

Tell Me a Story by ShatteredCrowns

Tell Me a Story by Caline Forward

"Another."

Jerking a chin in my direction in acknowledgment, the bartender fills another glass of a concoction of Jack Daniels liquor and a Coca Cola. Placing the glass on the bar in front of me, I give him a weak smile and sigh, my fingers trembling as I reach for the glass.

"Is that from the liquor or your head?"

Ignoring the question, I stiffen my fingers and grasp my glass in a tight grip, tossing back a gulp of the drink. I hold back a cringe and decide that I'd rather talk to the stranger than drink another painful sip. "Uh, both," I reply to the bartender, my nose wrinkling in distaste.

I look up in time to see his eyes curl up in laughter and his mouth crack ajar and a straight row of teeth premiering behind his lips. "I hear that a lot."

One of my eyebrows notch at this information, curiosity claiming the best of me. "Really?" I clear my throat, attempting to get the horrible taste out of my mouth. "What kind of stories do you get?"

His eyebrows shoot up and he pauses as he reaches to clean a spot on the bar farther down from me. "Um, well," he sighs, wiping the granite with a wet washcloth, "let me get you another drink before I answer that." I open my mouth in disagreement when he corrects himself, "A different drink."

Smiling in appreciation, he walks and takes my drink from in front of me, pouring it down the sink's drain. When he places a different drink in front of me - the one whose color is not the color of death - I look up at him patiently for the stories he has in store.
Leaning on the granite with his arms crossed over each other, he looks up at me with his brown eyes and smirks, seeming to conjure up the perfect start to the tale. "You see that guy over there?" he asks, ever-so slightly jerking his head toward the man that's on the other side of the bar than us.

He's a bigger man in hospital scrubs, tossing back one of the half a dozen shots that sit in front of him. I nod, my eyebrows furrowing in concern. What the hell is a nurse doing in a bar?

"He comes every day at around five, ordering a round of shots just for himself. After his fourth, he's spilling out with the same disaster story - tears and sobs and everything." His eyes grow hollow and sad, his lips curling inside of his mouth. We keep eye contact but it's as if he's looking somewhere far away. "But I promised I wouldn't tell anyone."

"You keep all these stories to yourself?"

He purses his lips and shrugs, as if to say yeah, I do.

"How many other stories do you have?"

"Just about a hundred. Maybe two." Another shrug. "Every person has a story. It's a part of the job to listen to them with an open mind and answer with honest feedback."

My eyes narrow at him. "So you're like a therapist."

Another shrug. "Yeah." He runs a hand through his messy brown hair and breathes out a sigh. "You need more, sir?" he calls to the man in scrubs.

The man just waves him off and gives me a sly thumbs up. An eyebrow jerks up before I can stop it. Pursing my lips, I give him a polite smile and turn back to the bartender only to find him staring at me with curious eyes. "What?" I ask, suddenly self conscious. This man can probably see my inner most secrets and suddenly I'm not so sure if I like being so vulnerable here in front of him like this.

"What's your story? You haven't told me yet." His request was polite, but very curious. As if I were a nut that wouldn't open up for the squirrel.

"There's no story to be told." I shrug and he looks at me as if I were a stubborn child. "Honest!"

"That's stupid." He flicks my untouched glass of something with his finger and I look at him expectantly. "You haven't even touched this drink. Drink it."

My mouth drops open. "You just want me to get drunk so I can spill out all my secrets, you turd!"

He laughs, and I find that I really love the sound of it. You can just tell that it's true happiness that caused it, not something he's forcing. "Oh, come on, that would make me an asshole." I roll my lips inside my mouth and he guffaws. "Oh my God, you think I'm an asshole!"

I scrunch my nose to hide a smile and hold my fingers an inch apart from each other to show "a little bit."

He shakes his head at me and buries his head in his crossed arms that he's leaning on on the granite. "That's unbelievable. Usually my customers are assholes, but me? That's a first." I shake in silent laughter, but stop abruptly. His head pops up and he deadpans me with a question. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?" I ask, even though I know exactly what he's asking.

"Wack happiness away and keep it at least a mile from you." I cross my arms and tuck my hands beneath my armpits, self conscious again and embarrassed by his absurd psychology tricks. He tilts his head and looks at me with sincere, honest eyes. "Is that your story?"

Rolling my lips in my mouth, I shake my head yes. He's right. But I can't tell him why.
"Why won't you tell me it?"

Sighing, I slouch on my barstool and bury my head in arms on the bar. "Because I'm a lunatic," I say, but it's muffled in my coat's sleeve. I have to repeat louder for him to hear.

"Hey." I ignore him. "Hey," he repeats, more stern now. "Look at me."

Hesitating, I do as he asks and find him less than a foot away from me. I take a quick breath in and hold it, amazed by the color his eyes and how I'm not scared of how close we are. Why am I not scared? His face transforms to where it lacks an expression of any kind, and I wonder if mine mimics the same. Is he thinking the same things I am?

But his lips form words and everything at once drifts away to where it's his words that are lifting me up from this darkness I'm sitting in. "You are far from a lunatic. That guy over there? That nurse? He's not even a lunatic, and he's a health professional who drinks like an alcoholic." He rolls his eyes at himself. "Actually he is an alcoholic, but that's not the point. And me? I listen to hundreds of people's stories and have never gushed to anyone mine, and am I a lunatic? No.

"We're just all human. We all make mistakes. We all have a past that we would like to change. But we can't, and that's one thing we all share as a human race. So look at me - look. And listen. Whoever hurt you... they're an asshole. They didn't deserve you, not the other way around. And if they're out of your life, good. They served their purpose in your life, and now they're gone.

"But now you're here. You met me, and now I'm going to tell you the story of me. For once in my life, I'm going to tell the story, not the other way around."

Stunned out of my skin, I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. He gives me a sad smile and nudges the glass that still full in front of me.

"Have a drink. You'll need it to hear this."

Narrowing my eyes, I hesitantly take the glass and take a small sip. My eyes widen when I find that it's actually good. I give him an absurd look and he smiles. "It's mostly Caprisun with just a splash of tequila. Don't tell," he whispers, offering me a sly wink.

My heart drops to my stomach and a laugh bubbles out of me. This time, I don't contain it. I just let it out. "Tell me a story," I say. And so he does.

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