Small Sips

Her ankles are red, the soles of her feet are black, and her heels dangle by her hips, hooked on a finger.

We’ve all been there, or most of have been. Swaying from side-to-side, wishing for a quick journey, longing for our bed or the toilet seat to rest our head. So I thought I’d try to paint a picture using tequila and greasy kebab as my colour palette.

It’s cold, but I can’t feel it. The drinks I put away in the bar made sure of it. There’s a chaotic hum in the air, buzzing around like a lost bee. 

“Waaait,” a girl pleads, stumbling alongside me. The group just ahead, two men and another woman, turn and wait. Her ankles are red, the soles of her feet are black, and her heels dangle by her hips, hooked on a finger. Sweat has formed a circle at the small of her back, as clear as day on the Barbie pink dress hugging her figure. A thought pops into my head, what a bloody mess. But that’s unfair, my T-shirt has a fresh stain from my kebab, greasy and orange. My trainers are sticky and black around the edges, and my breath smells like the tequila I failed to turn down before I left the bar.

“Can you carry me?” The shoeless girl asks the biggest of the men at her side. 

“Hell no,” he says, “I’m too drunk.”

“Pleeease?” She asks, manouvering behind him. 

“No, I’ll drop you.” He says, frustrated, pulling her arm and moving her back to his side. 

“You don’t like me,” she says, defeated. 

“Come here, Lucy. You can lean on me if you need it,” the other guy says. His arm stretches over her and lands on her waistline.

I don’t know why, it’s probably the tequila, but I pause my journey and find a place by the canal. The group ahead fades into the distance. At this length, they look like friends casually walking home after work. Streetlights reflect off the black water, and there's a steady knocking of boats caressing the edges. Above, a bass thuds out of a window, continuing the party until morning. I feel like shouting, have some respect, it's five a.m., but I don’t because I remember last weekend when I was that neighbour squeezing the last drop out of the night. I yawn, gulping down the less-than-fresh air around me. There’s a taste of earth, dust and then an aftertaste of tequila. Its presence is nauseating, and I add some stomach bile to the blackness below my dangling feet. Now I'm contending with a worse taste in my mouth and chunks of god knows what stuck between my teeth. 

Drinking is really an awful exercise. You start believing this time will be different, this time I’ll have a few, then go home and wake up rested. But does it ever work out like that, are there really people in the world capable of such stunning feats of discipline? The problem with alcohol is that as soon as it pours over your lip, it begins its campaign for more. It’s a stubborn dictator, dismantling the checks and balances as soon as the opportunity arises. 

There’s a footbridge to my right, and a couple of uniforms are walking across it, coming my way. I wipe my mouth and straighten my spine. 

“Alright chap,” the youngest one says as they get a few feet away. 

“Yeah, I’m okay, thanks.”

“I wouldn’t sit there for too long,” the older one starts, “people like you end up falling in all the time. Every now and again, they never find a way out.” 

“Oh,” I say, “don’t worry, officers. I’m not that drunk.” Classically, the words of a drunk man. I see them both look-down, wondering what it is floating below my feet. There’s a new smell in the air. One that’s not hard to place. 

“Feeling better?” the younger one asks, nodding towards the blackness.

“Much,” I reply. 

“Come on lad, let’s get you up. Where are you heading anyway?” The older one asks. 

“I'm on my way to the station, but I thought I’d get some fresh air first, it makes the journey easier.” 

“Well, you didn’t pick the best spot for that,” the younger one says, sniffing the air. He’s right. Now I think about it, it smells rancid here, like every small dark alley in every big bright city. 

I’m surprised at their strength when they lift me up by my armpits. For a second, I think I might continue upwards, fly home and find myself in bed. But as soon as the thought reaches its conclusion, I’m slumping back to earth. 

“Take a few deep breaths,” one of the uniforms says, but my head is spinning, and I can’t tell which. 

“Have a sip,” another voice speaks from my shoulder, and there’s a bottle of water waving in front of my face. 

“I’m gonna,” I start, and they aim me towards a drain. 

“Feel better?” The younger one asks, and actually, I do now. 

“Much.” 

“Want that water now?” 

“Yes, please,” I say, grab the bottle and gulp down a big swig. 

“Slow down, or you’ll be throwing up again,” the older one says, and I know he's right. 

I walk back up the street to the train station, still flanked by the two uniforms. From my best guess - which in all honesty, can’t be that good right now - I can catch a train home in ten minutes. I wasn’t sitting by the canal for that long. 

“You can keep the bottle,” the older uniform says.

“Thanks. Thanks for your help. Sorry for the…” 

“Don’t mention it. You missed us, so you’re good. Get home safe.” 

The platforms are a misleading scene of bodies, some just as disorientated as myself and others looking like they might even be sober. Although, my vision is blurry, especially at a distance, and what looks like a sober man could just as well be another like me. Someone telling themselves they’re sober enough to be here instead of laying face down in the street. Sporadic shouts and bursts of laughter will the quiet air. They're the rat-a-tat-tat of a machine gun, disturbing the peace of the night. Close by, I hear a stream of something, water or someone relieving themselves against a wall. My stomach’s too fragile to investigate. I walk a little up the platform, trying to avoid unwanted scents and find a bench with a free space. The cold metal frame is cruel on my skin, sending goosebumps along my back. 

“Long night?” Someone asks. I look to my left, expecting a pair of eyes, but I find a ponytail. 

“You can say that again,” it replies to the body behind her. 

“Why did you leave early?” 

“Jack called,” she says, turning to the tracks, and now I see her profile. Black streaks line her face, blending with the glitter contouring her cheekbones. She doesn’t get a reply but a hug. It’s a long one, the type of hug people give out at funerals or in hospital waiting rooms. I take a small sip of water, remembering the words of the older uniform. But it’s hard to stop myself. Every drop has healing powers, slowly but surely bringing me back to life. 

“You know he’s a waste of time, right?” The friend says to the girl next to me. 

“I know,” she replies. 

“You need someone new. Someone silly to break out of his seriousness. That boy is always too serious,” she says, then looks around, pursuing someone suitable. I turn my head, locking my eyes on the tracks and take another small sip of water. I’m not opposed to the idea, I can be silly now and again. I mean, look at me now. In fact, it sounds like a fantasy. But in my state, I doubt I can break anyone out of anything. 

Another shout rings in the still air; this time it's closer, and I can’t stop myself from jumping. I turn sharply and see two boys bundled together on the floor, turning their shouts into laughter. 

“Jesus, boys are like bloody monkeys,” the girl with the ponytail says. I have to agree. No matter our appearance, we're all a few drinks away from climbing over each other and wrestling on the concrete. There’s a feeling in my stomach; it’s not nausea but something similar, envy? 

Another couple of uniforms appear, standing over the monkeys, watching them like dog owners staring at their dogs circle each other in the park. 

“Have you ever wrestled someone in a train station?” The ponytail friend asks. I turn back around and see her eyes aimed at me. 

“Me?” I ask. 

“Yeah, there’s no one else here?” There isn’t? I think and look around. I could have sworn the platform was busy. 

“Oh yeah. Well, I can’t say I’ve ever had the chance,” I answer and take another small sip of water. My bottle’s almost empty. 

“Would you, though, if you had the opportunity?” 

“Weird question. But I suppose not. The floor is covered in piss and bird shit.” 

"Good point. But you do have stains all down your clothes." 

"That's different," I say, unsure if it actually is. 

“Hey, what do you think of Amy? Her friend asks me, popping out from behind her like a second head trying to sell me a car. “She’s hot, no?”

“Another weird question. I see why you two are friends.” 

“She’s always been weirder than me,” Amy replies, blushing a little. Her cheeks are high on her face, and she has a small dimple on the left side when she smiles. Aside from the mix of mascara and glitter, she is indeed pretty. But pretty and hot are two very different things. 

“So,” Amy’s friend asks. 

“You are,” I tell Amy, and she blushes a little more. 

“Smoking, right?” The friend prods. 

“I’ll have to change when I get home,” I say, unsure if the sentence means what I want it to mean. “You know, like when you’re barbecuing and everything smells like smoke.” 

“Thanks,” Amy says. “Where are you heading?” 

“Haarlem," I reply, and they both giggle. 

“But you’re already here,” her friend says. 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, this is Haarlem station. Look,” she says, pointing to a platform sign. And she’s right. But how the hell did I get here? Did I fail to make it out in the first place? Did someone bring me back? My stomach turns over, and I can taste tequila again. 

“Well ladies, I hope you get home safe. It was nice to meet you. Stay weird. It suits you.” 

“You too,” they reply, giggling as I try to walk in a straight line to the exit.

---

Love, Luke

P.S I’ve written a good amount of stories so far, but out of them all, this is the one I want you to comment on. Tell me a tale of intoxication. Whether your source is tequila, beer, whiskey or coffee, I want to hear it. A few weeks back, I was writing in a café, and almost passed out because of two shots of espresso and a Jasmine tea.