When you’re already drunk on martinis you think, what’s one more, right? They’re so clear and small you think another won’t hurt. And the nice thing about them, or vodka in general, is it doesn’t stain. That’s what he told me the first time we went out when I spilled the whiskey on my shirt. He had dipped his folded napkin in the water glass and handed it over to me to blot the stain. “That’s why I always order vodka,” he said, smiling. I thought he was joking. I always think he’s joking. After two years, I still forget: he never jokes.
“Yes, one more with a twist,” I tell the bartender. I haven’t spilled yet but I’m nearly there. By midnight I’ll be covered in vodka and no one will know until they get close and smell me. He will have hold me up like a doll. He’ll hate that I get so drunk but he won’t say anything. He’ll just bring me water and get real quiet.
I sip this one using the little red stirrer, chin in my hands. The bartender looks away.
It’s crowded and I’m drunk in high heels. It’s a terrible combination. I can barely walk and the drink is sloshing over the glass and dribbling down my hand and spilling down the front of my dress. I’m wedged in between people and damp sequins are beginning to flake off my dress like fish scales.
I turn around to head back to the bar for one more martini. This one is a goner. And what’s one more, right?