Take Me On (Then Take Me Home) (Micheoff)

                Texas, Michael thought distastefully as he observed the bar he had stumbled across. Football was playing on every available television screen, though the sound was covered by the cheers and otherwise noisy conversation of the casual bar-goers. His cheeks were burning from the heat that he had escaped from outside, even though it was already nine o’clock at night. Still, there wasn’t much better for him to do than to drink. It was the summer after his final year of staying with his family in New Jersey, and he was in Austin to enjoy the surroundings and eventually find work because there was no way in hell that Michael would be able to find it in himself to attend college. Jobs were plenty in Austin; at least, that was the way that his mother had put it to him.

                “A bourbon,” he ordered as he sat down on a bar stool, feeling the cool metal press through his jeans. A drink would do him well.

                He turned to his left to see if the person beside him was interesting, but all he found was a back turned to him, shaking from the laughter of a conversation on the other end. Michael found himself sighing and hunching forward into the bar. The seat to his right was empty, and the team that was playing on television was barely familiar enough for him to feel a pang of irritation towards the ass-kicking they were receiving. His drink was pressed into his hands, and in afterthought he leaned up to flash the bartender a smile of appreciation. Texans were strange; they expected reactions of gratitude. In Jersey, Michael would have been lucky not to have his fingers jammed by the force of the bar tender shoving his drink at him.

                Just as he took a sip from the whiskey, he felt someone sit beside him and automatically turned to face the stranger. It was a man that was maybe five or ten years older than he, with dark hair and stubble to match. His bright blue eyes were half-shut, as though he was either exhausted or terminally dazed. His skin was pale and hidden under a large T-shirt that advertised the original Xbox.

The man turned to Michael and grinned. “This is the shittiest bar in Austin.”

“Yeah,” Michael retorted, placing the glass back on the bar and sitting up a little straighter. “I kind of noticed.”

“Just as well,” the man sighed. “I’m supposed to stop drinking alcohol until I’m done with the army, but whatever. Doesn’t matter what bar it happens in as long as there’s a drink in my hand.” He turned to the bar tender, who was wiping his hands on a cloth, and ordered, “Bourbon on the rocks, please.”

Michael raised his eyebrows. “A big fan of whiskey?”

“No, just a big fan of being drunk.” He held out a hand. “I’m Geoff. And you are?”

Taking Geoff’s hand slowly, Michael echoed, “I’m Michael.” He couldn’t help but notice the many tattoos coating Geoff’s arms. It was yet another thing they had in common. Knowing that this man was interesting enough to keep him entertained at least for the night’s duration and realizing that he would rather be downing alcohol than making real conversation, Michael said, “Fifty bucks says that I can take more whiskey than you can.”

Geoff’s drink was placed before him, and it was only then that Michael realized that they were still holding hands. He let go quickly, feeling his cheeks sting with embarrassment as Geoff chuckled. “Sorry, but I won’t challenge anyone as young as you. Wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”

Prickles of anger rushed through Michael’s arms. “I’m not that young.”

The smile Geoff had been wearing grew wider. “So, tell me, exactly how old are you?”

“Uh…” Michael blushed angrily. “Twenty-two.” It wasn’t exactly true; he would be turning twenty-two in three months. He took another swig from his glass, careful not to get too red-faced or look too irritated. “How old are you?”