Enthusiastically accepting to partake in my ceremonious gesture, S declares that he wants to top us off with a toast of his own and, judging by the formal clearing of his throat, this is going to be good. I just know it; it excites a bubbling within me as I anticipate the short but spiritedly explicit vain that his tipsy toast is going to take...
Here’s to those who wish us well...and those who don’t can go to hell.
However, his liquid courage oozes beyond what my jocular ass would’ve said or settled for. He’s spirited alright, and still surprisingly succinct for someone who’s about to down shot number four, but there’s not a hint of sarcasm to be found when he seizes the moment: “To finding friendship in the most peculiar places. To me finally being able to breathe again, to you conquering your first shot and coming out tonight with my crazy ass and actually seeming to enjoy it quite a bit — it’s fucking great to see you smiling this much, J...”
It’s great to have something to smile over.
I still can’t believe it. Somehow that’s been afforded to me on this night after this awful sleep-deprived week in a nightclub out of all places and fuck it feels good—albeit a little strenuous since I can’t even remember the last time I’ve held one this long—but whatever, I can’t stop. I am starting to enjoy myself here and I think it’s because he miraculously took my mind away from everything else. I can’t hear the abrasive music anymore; it’s not gone, vibrations of the bass linger in the background, but that grating pressure in my head has cleared significantly and I breathe a little easier as I listen to the rest of his proclamation; wishing upon us eternal exuberance, laughter, good times and good people. He’s ambitious; those things are so scarce in life that I should be doubting him as delusional for such a demand, but his optimism is too inspiring. I forget sometimes that there’s nothing wrong with merely wanting something. Those are incredibly generous and kind things to want for someone, actually, especially when said someone is quite the cynical, neurotic, and derelict bastard…
But I want all of those wishes to come true for us too.
“Cheers,” I say, the sight of the tequila sloshing around in his glass when it meets my sturdy, empty, one merits a chuckle out of me as their gratifying clink rings in my ears. Empty and full, sufficient and lacking; they look so strange next to each other and, nausea be damned, I wish I would’ve done just one more to have celebrated this properly, y’know...third time’s the charm and all. However, when I look over at the tray, I realize that would’ve been impossible: empty glasses are all that remain outside of the one in his hand, which he’s still holding—along with a gaze on me that keeps me smiling at him.
C’mon, go ahead... you’ve earned it.
He believes so too and gulps it down before daring to contemplate this sacred sentimentality. I appreciate his self-cognizance, but I think the alcohol’s affecting him more than he admits, because I know he’s openly emotional and... I’m okay with it. I have been. Seriously, Sunday was this week and I was there. I was there when the morning sun was pouring through the windows to fuel his infectious haze of happiness and, twelve or so hours later, I was there sitting beside him while he cried when it all crashed down. That night might’ve opened up a painful Pandora’s box for me that I’ve since spent every single waking hour regretting ever prying at it, but I never regretted staying with him. I don’t want him to suffer such purgatory again and much prefer his sappy tears tonight, but I’m happy to beckon the call if he ever needs it.
There’s certainly no need for me to pray about it, S...I’m just glad you’re okay.
“I think I’m qualified,” I remind him and the peace that instantaneously washes over his face says it all; he thinks so too.
A profound silence settles upon us as we bask in this affirmation and it’s so perfectly pure that I don’t prod it. He’ll talk when he’s ready and I’ve got nothing else pertinent to add, so I soon find myself focused on the sensation of slowly straightening out a strand of my hair and twirling loosely it around the end of my finger, wondering about this one minor thing that starts to distract me...
It’s slightly tormenting because I can see her—she’s right there— but her back is turned to us as she rapidly tends to far more taxing orders of those in the cue, and, at this point, I wish she’d come over here so I can tell her not to worry about my silly order. It’s not like I need it and I’d feel really bad if she got chewed out by some drunken dipshit for taking a break to tend to me all the way back here...
“Alright, where’s the fucking bartender at? I need more shots, like instantly,” S speaks up and, before I can gesture to how swarmed she is on the other side so that he’ll understand to be extra-cool with her about it, he suddenly remembers something: “Wait, did you say you were nauseous?”
I nod, because yeah, I still am. It’s calmed down significantly from earlier to where I don’t feel like I’m going to die like I did, but...I don’t feel as good as I did a minute ago either. It’s at least threatening to come back and, while S’ remedy would probably stabilize me, the fact that I’ve now made it a deal worsens me.
No, you don’t have to. Seriously, I’ll be fine. It’s not worth the trouble of bothering her, especially when she’s beyond busy.
I don’t think he intended for her to hear his plans — he’s about as surprised as I am when she turns to our side, rushing over with my bulky glass of Coke in her hand. Freshly poured, it’s so filled to the brim with carbonation that I fear the top might spill on the both of us when she sets it down, but it doesn’t. Like a true professional, she apologizes profusely for the wait, and I offer her as much of a steady and polite smile as my guilt will let me muster.
“No, it’s fine, really. Thank you.”
Seriously, she’s got nothing to apologize for. I know it’s just a Coke, but it looks immaculate. The abundant foam has fizzled out some, but the ice cubes and straw are still surrounded with all of those tiny, sparkling, little bubbles that make restaurant Coke so much better than the shitty bottles from the vending machine that go flat. Bringing the straw closer to my lip, one sip of the cold, familiar, syrupy, goodness instantly satisfies me. It was worth the wait.
She’s relieved enough by my answer to jest, “These Friday nights are getting to me...”
Yeah, they’re getting to me too.
My overzealous reaction of amusement at this invites another thick layer of irony when I swallow too rough and the carbonation shoots straight up to my fucking nose, acidicly tickling the shit out of it and making me feel like a seven year old for not being able to handle my damn soda—like I didn’t feel stupid enough already. I’m safe, though. Nobody notices. Tamara is busy explaining how to get her attention and S latches on immediately; graciously ordering his next round of shots and...that glass of water for me, even though I’m now pretty happy nursing on my Coke. The sweetness of the syrup is starting to weigh on my stomach, but the sugar and caffeine do have my brain working better.
Once I finish this, I’ll probably be good to go.
Which...isn’t going to happen as soon as I thought. She’s back in a blink, balancing a new silver tray with one hand and gripping onto the glass of water with the other before she places it right next to my cola. The two, bulky, mostly full glasses of different drinks look so weird next to each other in front of me, as if the first one wasn’t satisfactory enough for my particular taste or something that’s clearly not the case. I can’t even stop sipping on it long enough to thank her again and put a thumbs up on the counter when she asks if there’s anything else. I’m good too.
She walks away and I only hear him finish shot number five.
“I’m feelin’ good, J…” S sings, breaking to chuckle at himself, and my eyebrow raises up as I smirk.
“Feelin’ really nice right now…um, anyway, so drink your fucking water, man. It helps. Any time you feel like you’re gonna throw up, take a sip of ice-cold water. You won’t feel sick anymore. It’s like impossible to throw up after drinking ice cold water. It ain’t just for nausea though. You should always drink water in between drinking alcohol…I should probably order a water too, but fuck it, I can get it later, it’s okay.”
Holy shit, you’re not letting me get away with this, are you?
Granted, I brought this alarm upon myself. If I truly wanted to silently soldier on, I would’ve kept my mouth shut, but... it slipped out. I didn’t tell him that for sympathy or with any expectation that he was going to help me— I didn’t think there was any way that he could—it was just...a fact, one I needed him to get so he’d understand why I wouldn’t be indulging in anymore of the shots he offered. I’m not usually this sick, but I’m so used to living with nausea in general that his gentle yet firm insistence pushing me to work through it is...weird to hear. It’s been a while since someone refused to let me wallow like I always want to and forced me to get up to make myself feel better. The last one must’ve been...
She was a true friend for that in February, but it’s only been in this past week without her where I’ve fully comprehended that. I was very fucking sick then, but especially in my head. It’s wild to think that the tipping point of my breakdown was on the verge of being fucking Pre-Calculus, but I was so unbelievably petrified and stressed about everything back then that I could’ve been set off by anything. She saw me struggling and suffering at rock bottom and, no matter how much I tried to evade her that day, she didn’t let me get away with it. Her acts of kindness were small too, yet my debt to her will forever remain chained to my soul. However, the length of that chain is short in comparison to the one that I’ve been rapidly linking here with S. He was never supposed to be my friend at all, much less the wonderfully considerate one he’s been who is so overjoyed about our friendship that, not only did he give a beautiful toast and wish upon all of these overwhelmingly nice things for me, he keeps doing them...he’s been doing them...
And I don’t know why he does.
Doesn’t he realize that he shouldn’t bother trying? There’s nothing for him to gain from being friends with someone who hasn’t made it easy for him— who hasn’t made it easy for anyone since I’ve spent years being so desolate and reclusive that I don’t know how to. Can’t he see that it’s a worthless pursuit? Look at me: S went through so much effort tonight so I could feel better and belong and all I’m capable of doing with it is stubbornly stirring the straw, selfishly making myself suffer more all because I just can’t fucking understand...
“Why are you being so nice to me?”