📍 at the peacock pub with @adrianrourke.
"Sir,” Monika said, leaning on the bar, “I’d like the strongest drink you have. And also a wine spritzer in case I don’t like it.” She’d been at the bar for all of five minutes before the siren’s call of liquid courage had lured her over to the bar. The venue was already set up for the night’s festivities, tables arranged in neat order to facilitate two dozen rounds of speed dating. It hadn’t been her idea to go; the suggestion had come from a colleague at school, who recommended The Peacock Pub’s bi-monthly lightning-round social networking event. But she felt silly standing there as the bartender mixed her cocktails, clad in a pressed white cotton summer dress, handmade tortoise shell earrings dangling precariously from each lobe. It felt like something she’d joke about to Abel (’Who needs romance when you can date twenty people in an hour?’), a hypothetical scenario she’d present to Cooper (’Can you imagine? I’d probably start showing pictures of the cats when I ran out of things to say!’), and an experience she would definitely be telling Rhiannon later on (’Can you believe that I went speed dating?’)
Truthfully, she felt like she was in the wrong. In a way, it felt like cheating. But she wasn’t in a relationship, not really, not in the conventional naming of terms and establishment of boundaries. The resurgence of wistful, maybe-we-could-be-more-than-friends feelings had gone undisclosed since Abel’s return to Philadelphia, locked away in a heart-shaped box in her chest. So this was nothing. Inconsequential. That’s what she’d convince herself. Eventually.
With two glasses set in front of her ⏤ bubbly white wine and soda, garnished with a lemon wedge, and an unidentifiable red cocktail in a tumbler ⏤ Monika requested to start a tab and looked over the room. People arriving more frequently than when she’d walked in. With a sip of her spritzer, she gave herself a mental pep talk. You can do this. You will do this. It’s one night out. Make the best of it. She exhaled slowly and took another sip as another attendee approached the bar next to her and placed an order. He smelled good, but her attention was especially piqued when he spoke. Australian. It added to his mystery. Immediately her fingers started drumming on the bar top, polished nails drilling a steady beat on the wood. She wouldn’t let her nerves get the best of her. Not tonight.
In one swift, determinative move, Monika lifted the tumbler to her lips and drained the glass of its unknown contents. Fire burned down her throat. Was it meant to be sipped and not taken like a shot? Well. It was too late for that consideration. What was it? It tasted strong and herby, like anise-flavored gasoline, and she wondered what she’d done. “Oh my god,” she said in horror, turning to the stranger at her side. “I think I just drank absinthe.” Manners were not lost on her. Extending a hand abruptly, the bangles adorning her wrist jangling accordingly, she added: “Oh, I’m Monika, by the way. You’re here for the speed dating, too?”