!! SPOILERS - LUCINA !!
Intoxication
Her fingers tremble against the
drinking glass, the gold-painted nails repeatedly tapping against the
cup's crystal surface. It's a nervous reaction she developed, one
which is unconsciously performed every time she finds herself in his
presence, willingly or otherwise. Much like her alcohol addiction,
she's not sure when it became a habit, but she knows why it started:
it's a result of being with him.
The majority of her conscience revolves
around this person, whether she likes it or not, and each turning
point in her life was indirectly related to him. Not everyone would
judge her based on the skin condition she was born with—that was a
fact she accepted after their first meeting. The realization that she
didn't need to endure the bullying she received from her less
understanding classmates was also a product of talking with him. Even
her dependency on alcohol is partially his fault because of the many
times he insisted they go drinking together.
Their current presence at this bar is
at his encouragement, an idea he suggested after noticing how upset
she seemed. Almost every day for the past year, after she left her
workplace in the evening, she would head to the bar and buy a round
of drinks to relieve herself from the constant stress of her job. But
she hadn't been keeping with her established routine this week, and
by Friday afternoon, the physical effects of going for so long
without wine had become visible.
“Lucy, what happened to you?” he
exclaimed upon seeing the dark bags beneath her half-lidded eyes.
“You look like a panda. Well, pandas don't have amber eyes or
blonde hair, so it's those black bags on your face that make you look
like a panda.”
“I'm fine,” she assured him in a
tired alto, trying to end the conversation without sounding rude or
irritated with her childhood friend. “I couldn't fall sleep last
night. I'll go to bed early tonight.”
He poked at her cheeks and pointed out,
“You're not wearing any blush. You always put it on, and lipstick
too, but you didn't do it today. There's hardly any color in your
face.”
It's about to get red, she
thought, if he doesn't stop touching me. “My skin is pale,
Jeff. I forgot to put on makeup this morning. I'll do it when I work
again on Monday.” She sighed in relief when his hand dropped to his
side. At least his hand isn't touching my face anymore. “You
know, you don't need—”
“Is this because of your dad?”
She stopped talking, suppressing a
sigh, and stared at him with bloodshot eyes. A glass of white wine
would be wonderful right now. “Why do you think I'm bothered by
him? He's never affected me before, so why would this be any
different?”
“Well, I don't know,” the man
muttered, scratching at his scalp, shifting around several strands of
his bright red hair. “If my old man was in a coma, I'd be worried
about him. That's how you feel, right? That's why you can't sleep:
you're thinking about your dad.”
“I haven't cared about him for a long
time,” she mumbled. “His presence and existence are nothing but
poison to me. He's like a disease that can't be cured, a problem much
worse than my skin condition or my alcohol addiction.”
“If you don't care so much, why do
you look terrible?” The lack of a response from the woman made him
smile a little, and he grasped a sleeve of her trenchcoat. “You
know, a little alcohol makes you feel a lot better, especially when
you haven't had it in a week. How about we go to the bar, just like
old times?” When she averted her gaze to stare at her other sleeve,
he lowered his lip in a pout and tugged on the one he was holding.
“Come on, Lucy, let's go. I'll even buy you a drink.”
She chuckles, not loud enough for Jeff
to hear the soft laughter, despite sitting next to her. He's too busy
focusing on not falling off the stool to pay attention to his
childhood friend. I can't deal with this guy when I'm sober,
she thinks, but it's not like being drunk makes it easier for me
to talk to him. The wine doesn't change much; all it does is make me
seem less insufferable, more levelheaded. Her amber eyes shift
their gaze from her shaking shot glass to the red-haired man beside
her. There are hardly any differences between drunk and sober
Jeff, so alcohol doesn't really change him either. I guess the most
it helps us with is providing physical relief from our stressful
surroundings.
She continues to stare at her oblivious
friend, her eyes half-lidded. Even though he acts like this,
trying not to pass out while laughing down a bottle of whiskey,
there's just something about him that interests me. I'm so deeply in
love with him, every small action of his is fascinating. Hearing him
spout stupid secrets that aren't even secret, like him being tone
deaf and leaving the toilet seat up, or watching the barely visible
vibrations of his throat when he speaks—everything he says and does
seems interesting to me. Just looking at him makes my heart race,
like I've been injected with a euphoria-inducing drug, and my stomach
flutters uncontrollably with little butterflies. It's almost painful,
but it's a nice feeling.
A crack appears on the cup, caused by
the constant clacking of her nails against its crystal surface, and
she apologizes as the bartender scolds her for breaking another one
of his shot glasses. She stares at the cracked cup, a few ounces of
wine still swaying in it, then she tosses the liquid down her throat
before bothering the man for a second shot of Moscato.
I already act like I'm intoxicated
around him, she concludes, so there's no harm in looking the
part.
0 comments:
Post a Comment
Please do share your thoughts.