A blonde haired woman sat at the bar, staring deep into the glass. She watched the whiskey swirl around, the ice clinking together. The sound achingly familiar. How many times had she taken comfort in that sound? There were too many to mention, too many to recount. She tore her eyes away from the glass, a packet of cigarettes close by begging to be smoked. To inhale the toxic fumes, to have her lungs filled, the nicotine in her blood stream. There was no other feeling like it, except one. The feeling of that whiskey burning down her throat, creating a warm sensation in the pit of her stomach.

She couldn’t remember when it happened. It all felt like a lifetime ago now. Black Russians on a Friday night. No matter how bad the working week had been, how little they had seen of each other it was always Black Russians on a Friday night. 7pm sharp, no earlier, no later. Just the two of them, even their friends knew not to call. They needed to be alone, to reacquaint themselves with each other. Talking, touching, laughing. Then dinner, always in a great restaurant and she always paid, no matter how much her lover had fought it. Then home, that had always been the best part of the night. Some nights her shirt had already been ripped open before they had got through the front door. The bruising kisses, the hands that had roamed her body, the tongue that had caressed her, licked her in places that she had never allowed any other woman to get close to. How long ago was that? She couldn’t remember, the memories were too good and too painful to be recalled.

Now she looked across the bar. The smoke making it hard to see. She could see figures moving on the dance floor, some moulded together, like she used to do. Her lover had always loved dancing, the look of joy on her face every time they took to the floor. The holding her close, the feeling of her skin on her fingertips as she moved her hand underneath clothing. The dark hiding the obvious chemistry, the obvious need that she had to do so much more than dance. She wondered how many of those woman were thinking the thoughts that she had done all those years ago, before her fast and fevered fall.

She focused her attention back on her glass, draining the liquid in one easy motion. God, that felt good. Another further step away from life as she currently understood it to be. She signals to the woman behind the bar. She’s ready for another, and another if time will allow. It’s getting late but the clock doesn’t matter when your measuring time by now many drinks you can squeeze in before last call. She thought about what would get her to leave early. Not the fact that she has work in the morning, not the fact that really she’s too old to be out this late, drinking alone. Maybe a woman, a younger woman, who didn’t ask too many questions. The bartender approaches her, weighing up the situation.

“Are you sure that you need another drink right now?” she asks, the smallest trace of concern in her voice.

“You won’t increase your profits if you talk people out of buying the merchandise.” came the reply.

“How many times have you been in here this week?”

“I don’t know, maybe once or twice. Why? Are you keeping count?”

“I’m just trying to look out for you.”

“I don’t need to be looked out for, all I need is another drink and if you would be so kind as to deliver it….”

“Like I said, another drink won’t solve the problem.”

“Maybe not, but it will stop me thinking about it.”

“You never stop thinking about it.” laughed the bartender.

“Tell me why we have these conversations.”

“Because I’m the one person that you talk to. Because you might think that I judge you but you never have to face me in the morning.”

“Maybe that’s something that should change.”

“Which part?”

“My not seeing you in the morning.”

“Nice try, but do you not think that I’ve heard all the chat up lines that have ever been uttered?”

“You might have, but you’ve never heard them from me.” said the blonde, letting out a throaty laugh.

“You’re drunk.”

“That might be true but you have to admit there’s something attractive in that, something dangerous, something that you want to get to know better.”

“Dangerous, maybe…”

“You think you can rescue me.”

“You think you’re past rescuing.” challenged the bartender.

“I lost the only hope I had.”

“You won’t find it in the bottom of a whiskey glass.”

“Maybe not, but it feels good going down.”

“And talking of going down…”

“Don’t even tempt me.”

“Would you wait for me?” asked the bartender, leaning across the bar, closer to the blonde.

“Would I wait for you when?” replied the blonde, leaning in a little.

“Tonight.”

“I’m not going anywhere fast.”

“No, but you’re running from something.”

“Are you getting me that drink?” asked the woman, changing the subject.

“Only if you tell me something.”

“Like what?”

“One thing that’s part of why you ended up here.”

“I’ll tell you two things. Two divorces, one virtual, one real. The virtual one hurt more than the real one.”

“That’s more than you’ve told me in all the months that you’ve been coming here.”

“Maybe that’s the point. Maybe I don’t want you to know anything about me. Maybe you shouldn’t know anything about me. There’s not much to tell anyway.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Believe it or not, it’s true.”