Fighter

chapter 3

"Scotch and soda." 

The bartender nods in my direction. I assume I'll be receiving that same nod quite a few times tonight. I watch him mix my drink clad in a loose fit Hawaiian shirt and preppy frat boy boat shoes. As if it weren't obvious enough, I'll be dubbing him "malibu ken." 

My mouth waters at the sight of my drink being place on his bar only feet away from me. Before he can send it my way, his phone rings.

"Yo, Rocky!" He shouts in a dialect only comparable to that of an inebriated bulldog. "C'mon man, it's a dope name."  

"Excuse me. You shouldn't be on the phone at work," I throw in his direction. The only thing on my mind at the moment is my puppy-like thirst. 

Ken moves the phone from his ear to stare me up and down. "Feel free to tell my boss, sweetheart." His words aren't audible as my gaze travels to the glass that was tossed in front of me. I hold back a frown at the lack of his Cheers-style bar slide. I grew indulgent in the, unfortunately finite, belt of tall and short glasses lining up for me. The only perk of being a sentient creature in sports bar: the free booze. Each come with a wink or a lip bite that lose value with every sip I take. Huh? I guess I'm not a slutty drunk. I am certainly not a lightweight, but I'm glad my legs have remained sealed while my lips are wrapped around incoherent laughs and salt rimmed glasses. Their gestures fail to flatter me as I remind myself that this would happen to anyone with tits and a pulse.

I'm quick to jump at the touch of a hand on my shoulder. I turn to be reminded with a boyish smirk adjacent to flushed cheeks.

"Hey, Killer." His voice always carries a leveled balance of warmth and rasp. 

"Adam!" I'm enveloped in a hug as his height towers over me. "How are you? It's been months!"

"I'm good, I'm good."

Upon relaxing in my seat, I can't help but notice that my libations are alarmingly smaller. My thought is punctuated with the sound of four glasses landing on the bar consecutively. 

"You little bitch! Those were my drinks!" He laughs while flagging down Malibu Ken for another round. 

"So, what's new pussycat?" 

"Nothing. I'm just trying to make it through the end of the year." I sigh, "the holidays are fun until you're an adult." 

"Hey,  just be glad that you're single. You would think that, being with Mandy, we could just give out gifts as a couple to cut down on the spending and shit. But, no, she's adamant about me getting my own gifts for her entire family." 

I roll my eyes at his phrasing. "Damn. Okay, I'm just gonna ignore that first part," I jokingly feign agony. "Have you even met her whole family?"

"Not besides John and her parents. John told me that they go all out for Christmas. Apparently, since her family's pretty big, it's like the only time there all in one place for the whole year. Looks like I'm gonna be the only Jew there. I just wish I could boycott the whole Holiday gift giving scene. Don't get me wrong, I love Mandy and seeing all her baby photos is like my own personal heaven, but I'm a dude. I don't know the first thing about buying presents. Do I get her diamonds? Or is that too basic? I can't get her shoes or clothes or lingerie. What if I get the wrong size? Then she'll think that I think she's fat. Plus those stores always make me uncomfortable."

I giggle at his incoherent rambling. He continues, only stopping to throw back another shot.

"Why don't you just make her something yourself? Knowing her, she probably mentioned some bauble she wanted when you guys first bought the house."

"Nah, she won't admit it. But, she's too much of a material girl for that."

Upon thinking of another option, my focus is interrupted by the same drowsy East Coast accent that belongs to none other than, Malibu Ken.

"Aye, Rocky! You made it." I instantly feel my migraine growing stronger as well as my dipsomania. 

"I told ya to stop calling me that," someone, who I assume is a carbon copy of a narcoleptic Kennedy boy, replies.

 Adam and I simultaneously imbibe what's left to dim our cerebral light bulbs. I feel an overwhelming wave of emotions come over me, courtesy of my refreshments. I can't help but feel whiny and fight back the urge to break every object in sight. Seeing as I have the build of a busty suricate, that occurrence sounds much more feasible in my head.  Tears of drunken frustration flood my waterline as fast as the chair next to me is pulled out.

The ounce of sobriety I possess seems drastically heightened as a discolored palm rests inches from my own. A scent of tobacco, spearmint, and sweat replaces any air in the room. My lens traces the divots in his buff figure. I move north, zeroing in on those brown eyes, and I'm drunk again.