She didn’t drink much. It wasn’t the physical aftereffects of alcohol she was usually worried about —not the splitting headache, or the nausea, or the exhaustion. Her hangovers were more often than not emotional episodes that lasted days. Sometimes longer than a week. It wasn’t good with the meds. It wasn’t a good mix. Alcohol wasn’t a good mix for Bailey. Short term, maybe, but she’d learned in her sessions that short term pleasure usually resulted in long term pain. That was a nice therapeutic way to phrase it. Patty’d be proud. For that one fleeting thought, at least. Tonight she’d succumbed to an urge to drink, to push down the depression with a couple rounds of cider.
Mama G’s was packed, even for a Friday night. Bailey still sat at the bar alone. The TV hanging off the bar was playing through Love Actually. Merry Christmas, huh? Andrew Lincoln, quiet and sifting through cardboard signs, with Silent Night hardly audible over the sound of Bailey’s surroundings. “To me, you are perfect.” The sign read onscreen. Fuck Keira Knightley. Bailey wasn’t sure when she started crying, but she could taste salt on her tongue. No vodka, so no chaser. Just tears. “What’s that even like?” Bailey said, leaning to rest her entire chest on the bar top. She pointed at the television screen with a finger. “What does love even feel like?” Her words were slurred, her head was heavy. Swimming. She felt warm from all the cider.
