Under The Mistletoe

One Too Many

I stare at the glass in my hand in fear, as if I'm holding a sack letter. Beads of sweat appear out of nowhere and form a confluence on my forehead. Everywhere is silent, but a crowd forms a semicircle around me, waiting for me to drink up from the glass. I glance around at all of them with their different sizes of heads and different shapes of faces but a similar grin as they eagerly wait for what would happen next.

I take my focus back to the glass. Inside it is a chilled Sex on the Beach, which is my favorite cocktail in the world, and unfortunately, one that has the special skill of summoning its siblings after the first glass.

My best friend at work handed me the glass, but she knows better than to do that. Aside from the fact that any form of alcohol and my good self can and should not be left alone in the same vicinity, last year at the annual Christmas party, I made a fool of this same good self.

I remember it like it was just yesterday. Who wouldn't? After my third cocktail, I must have thought I was already at home and in the comfort of my bedroom because my blouse came off first, followed by my skirt, and that's all I remember or wish to remember or be reminded of.

I was mocked the whole year and nicknamed clothes-off. Now the name has stuck like glue and permanently replaced all my other legal names. I totally thought I would be passed over during the rounds of promotions for the year because of the negative reputation. I mean, who would want someone like me climbing up the ladder in their organisation if I have to meet with clients and have a drink or two? Not me for sure.

I was passed over for a promotion as expected, but my name mysteriously appeared on the list at the last minute. I say mysteriously because it was too good to be true. I thought it was a prank until I received the letter and was commended for my outstanding results. I thought the letter was the last of it, but I didn't know there would be an announcement, which was saved for the last, at this year's annual Christmas party, and I have to drink to it.

I look to the crowd again, and they expect me to launch the toast at once. My uptight boss stares at me from a corner of the room with a glass in her hand and a scowl on her face. I expect her to be happy for once, with a grin also plastered on her face like the others because I was the only staff promoted in our unit for outstanding results. But I'm keeping her waiting, and she hates waiting for anyone. I know I'll get her coveted approval if I at least take a sip and move the evening forward, but I cannot trust myself with as little as a sniff of the drink. I gulp.

At another corner of the room stands my colleague and archenemy. We basically do the same job in the unit, and we were on the same grade gunning for the promotion like hunters chasing after game. With the promotion, I become her senior and can practically boss her around if and when I want. She is meant to be pissed off at the news, but she isn't. Her smile smells of subtle victory and is wide enough to fit on three faces. It feels as if she is patiently waiting for my sudden downfall, to be facilitated by my hand and the sin called alcohol. I exhale loudly.

Muted chattering from the crowd gradually fills the air, and some staff rest on one leg to the other in anticipation. I'm running out of time, and I know what I have to do. I know that I have to do it to prove to myself that I'm now capable of handling public drinking. I have to do it for my boss to reduce her irritation. I have to do it to wipe the evil smirk off my deceitful colleague's face. I have to do it to be free from my dreadful nickname. And finally, I have to do it to get the party started.

I put the glass to my nose and take a deep breath in. My body responds with a jerk. I raise the glass and take a sip. The crowd also raises their glasses, cheers, and sips. They disperse immediately after that into various cliques, and none of them notice the swig I take next. The glass is empty within seconds. My body feels hot all of a sudden as if a dish is baking in the oven and I'm on the menu. I shift my collar to the side to let the steam out. It evaporates, but I don't feel any relief. Only chilled cocktails can help.

I proceed to the open cocktail bar to cool myself off, and still, no one notices me. Not even my best friend at work. She seems to have scooted off with a work crush. She has drooled over the man for as long as I can remember, but no further action has been taken by her whatsoever. The man clearly only likes the attention he gets. Nothing more. He doesn't bother to give any.

Just then, the waiter serves the sibling to my first drink, another Sex on the Beach, which I accept. It feels heavenly, like sex on the beach. I take another and another, and eventually, I have one too many. The next thing I feel is a cool breeze on my chest. It's like I'm floating on an island, so I know it's time to leave. I stagger to my feet, and when I turn around, all eyes are on me. On the revolving chair beside me, I slowly recognise my blouse.