A Love For Darkness

Tate

I've spent the better part of twenty minutes convincing myself that is it perfectly fine to enjoy a alcoholic beverage. Even if it's been years since I've had a drop, contrary to popular belief, a bar/club owner can operate those without being a lush.

It's the first time I've set foot inside another bar, besides my own in six years. The place is dark as night and feels like I do, black and sinister, giving off some strange ambiance to make people want to stay and spend their money.

The bar itself reminded me of my own. Rows upon rows of glass bottles lined the shelves that span from the ceiling to the floor, in every possible shade, from clear to brown. I can't decide whether I want whisky or gin or something stronger and wild. My fathers words echo in my head, "The drink has no answers, you won't find any at the bottom of a bottle."

Which is funny coming from him, of all people. There was a time when my father hit the bottle like it was his best friend. But all his words did was ignite a fire in me that I didn't know I possessed. The text didn't help, either. It's what started this, the uncertainty I felt when I read those five significant words. It was then that I decided that the universe was out to get me.

I'm starting to wonder if a stiff drink will help or hinder my situation, but I'm certain once I have one sitting in front of me, I'll forget any thoughts of doubt I have. I've yet to decide what my poison will be.

A tall, dark bartender leans toward me, his hands on his hips, studying me. As if he was reading my mind he asks, "Still picking your poison?"

I've just noticed his name. Chase. Poor guy, I can only imagine the torment he endured in school. It reminds me of my own torture because of my own horrendous name among other things.

"Yes." I reply slowly. I feel like a foreigner in a very familiar setting, I'm not sure if it's because I haven't drank in years or if it's because I'm trying to blend in, but not quite achieving it.

But with the day I've had, I should just throw caution to the wind and say screw it. No one knows me here, I can be who I want to, even if it's just for a few hours. It feels powerful to be the woman who can drink without feeling guilty. Without remorse or regret.

The music in the place is thumping and my pulse picks up the beat, when a new patron takes the stool two spots down from me, which only separates us by one seat. The bartender is back, dragging my attention with him.

"Decide on anything yet?" He asks.

Bourbon? Gin? Whiskey? Or Brandy? Maybe all four, I deserved it.

"Can I get a Sidecar with two whiskey sours, please?"

He grins, "Looks like we have a seasoned drinker here."

"You could say that." I shrug.

How could I not be when I owned and operated a bar and a club not three blocks from here. I chose this place because of its reputation and the fact that I could walk back to my own without having to drive there.

"Can I get a whiskey on the rocks." Says a smooth, husky voice.

It's a voice that commands attention. My attention, dissolving any previous disinterest I had in the opposite sex tonight. His voice is laced with tangible potency.

Jesus.

The bartender sets my drinks down, I can feel his eyes on me. They burn holes into my side. My breath catches in my throat, so I tilt the glass toward my mouth and take only a small amount into my mouth. The last thing I need is to seem like an amateur, by choking on my drinks.

The sting of the drink is a welcoming feeling. I might appreciate it more if I weren't so distracted by the suit sitting mere feet away from me. He's sucking all the air from the room.