"Here's to alcohol, the rose colored glasses of life." - F. Scott Fitzgerald
It was a stormy Saturday night with rain rattling against his glass sliding door, and thunderstorms striking the outdoors. His sliding door was slightly ajar––– allowing the cool breeze to seep through, and brush past his silhouette. The sounds of it roaring and falling silent. He loved when it rained because he could drink his tea, the herbal aroma filling his nose, the steam caressing his face and embrace nature. It was almost as perfect as when it snowed––– almost. The only thing that was missing was her. Silence as they sat side by side enjoying the weather then each other. Old school r&b music, his alcohol, her fragrance, them lying in his bed. Their silk skin and liquored lips. Her soft touches, his slow strokes, their climaxes. But she wasn't here, so he allowed the rain that encompassed the solitude, the silence, and the aloneness to soak in.
After the encounter with his mother, he needed some time to himself––– a way to rid himself of the sadness he felt with her random intrusion, and what better company than alcohol. Sure, he overindulged at times, but it aided him when he felt like he was at his wit's end. Lucas was exposed to it at an early age. Every family member living in his household lived their life in bottles––– golden flasks and Hennessy bottles all around him. He never indulged until he started feeling alone, and that feeling intensified as he grew older.
Post army life he became a heavy drinker with the cultivation of losing his best friend, his vision, and the incident that changed his perspective about himself and his capability to love. There was a time he allowed it to rule his life––– loving the way it felt and wanting to kill his sorrows, but with therapy, he was able to tame his addiction, amongst other things. He only seemed to go over his limit when he was troubled, and so he was.
He didn't mind being sober, but he preferred to be drunk. He wasn't as conscious of the air of struggle that suffocated him. The cloud of despair that levitated over his head constantly. There was something about being drunk––– a certain buzz, like faded evenings or slow sex with Robyn.
Robyn––– she made everything better. He knew she was here. The atmosphere always calmed when she was around; his heartbeat always slowed, and his mind stopped racing. He sensed her energy as soon as she stepped foot in his home. Her strawberry, vanilla orchid, and cocoa absolute scent inducing him on a high as it filled his nostrils, and penetrated the room. All her fragrances had high sillage and staying power––– he just wanted to bury his nose in her neck while burying himself in all her glory. It wasn't fair that she had this power over him, she seduced the very senses that made him vulnerable, especially when he was drunk.
"Robyn, what you doing here? I ain't make myself clear last time?"
"I came to check on you."
"Check on me?" He scoffed. "I don't need protection." He spat. But, he appreciated it. It made that tender affection he had for her bloom into something more, but she couldn't know that.
"I know, but you can't blame me for checking. I–––" She bit her lip fiddling with her fingers. She sighed and decided not to say it. Watching as he went from drinking Gin and tonic to Tequila. "Chris, you need to stop drinking so much." Robyn was always concerned with how much alcohol he consumed. She never thought it was a problem until she entered seeing him with several bottles scattered on the marble tabletop. It was troubling to her the path he was on because it was all too familiar.
"At least I can't drink myself blind."
"That wasn't funny. You have a problem, baby."
He chuckled. "Yeah, life."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
He groaned and shook his head. "Stop trying to talk about feelings."
