Much further away than Meg’s drink, other human beings were perhaps talking and food was being ordered and there was laughter which was not intended to prickle on Meg’s skin and mark her out as ugly and angry and sad and ridiculous. Much further away than Meg’s drink, there were possibly other waitresses and also waiters who carried dishes and glasses and baskets of bread and it was maybe they who were smiling too much and who were raising up that kind of Lebanese/Mediterranean atmosphere that was meant to feel like being family and being welcomed and which resulted in this — distant, very distant — sensation of being orphaned and a gatecrasher, a freak. And much further away than Meg’s drink there was probably conversation of the kind that arises between people who are friends and people who are lovers and people who are going to be lovers — there were voices sounding these unmistakable notes of familiar and opening and rising affection. And much further away than Meg’s drink it seemed there was this continuation of life. That was very likely. Somewhere shallow and inexplicable and just beyond Meg’s reach there was everything else which was not this drink.
Between her and the glass, though, there was nothing but a peaceful understanding and privacy. She imagined that she was so still by now that she must have become almost invisible. In the late bustle of meals and arrivals and calls for the bill and glowing goodbyes — the palaver of other people — she was practising transparency. She imagined that if she lifted her head and studied herself in the mirror — there were many mirrors available, these sheets of lights and echoes — if she was careful about how she looked then she’d find the real truth which would be that she had succeeded in disappearing.
I used to love anticipating. It almost made what would come next unnecessary.
You open your mouth to it and first it’s nothing and then it burns and by the time you swallow it’s ready to heat you and colour you all the way through and makes you the opposite of nothing and that hit — that big hello hit — just swings you back on your feet and you make sense and the world goes simple and easy and you can get through it because you feel the way — you feel exactly the right way to go and to do anything and you grin that special grin which is about having a secret that nobody else could ever understand and if they have to ask, then fuck ’em.
This glass. Here is this glass. It is upright and smooth and watchful and here with her.
And then you open your mouth to more and that idea you had which was very good and was going to solve every problem, that slips past you again and you can’t catch it and you open your mouth and there is more of the burn and it makes your skin uneasy and the only way to soothe yourself is to move and stand and be in the room and be bigger and you open your mouth and — between swallows — there’s so much you want to say and it’s important and fascinating and you are important and fascinating and you have to rush because you also have to open your mouth and get more in — more of your friend — more of the friend who is making you more friends, because now other people are noticing you and they are paying you attention because you matter and you’re funny and you’re clever and you catch the eye and you open your mouth and the world is sliding — you notice this — the planet is sliding instead of revolving, but you can cope and the speed goes wrong on actions and motions, but you can cope with these things, too — you are so good at coping, it’s something to admire — and you open your mouth and having sex would be good now and fitting and you won’t be scared about it this time — except then the fear leaps up at you because you’ve mentioned it inside yourself and so that makes the nasty in you wake — and you open your mouth and you do want to hold somebody, though, even if it’s frightening, and you open your mouth and you’re the centre of where you are, other people can’t help giving you maximum space and turning heads to you and watching and you do want to hold somebody and be safe and warm with them and cosy but you open your mouth because that makes you cosy, too, when there is no one who is there for you — which isn’t sad, because you will cope with this as well and you need no one — and you open your mouth and the faces you are facing with your face are unfriendly because human beings are bastards and that always comes out in the end, except that you are a bastard and the faces are being sorry for you and being angry and being disgusted and being not right, being like animals, or bad ghosts, and you open your mouth and you haven’t remembered until this why you don’t drink in public any more — you have forgotten again that the reason is because this happens, these things happen, these breaking-glass and falling and shouting things happen and this being an animal, or a bad ghost, keeps happening and you can’t stop.
Meg looked at the glass and the glass looked back.
I can’t stop.
The everything slides and I can’t stop.
It was a tall drink in front of her: cool, no ice, but still cool and still the dapper little drops of moisture were sleeking down with quiet purpose, just as they should.
I asked for it specially.
And fuck him.
Fuck him.
Although I won’t.
And I never would have.
This glass, this drink, which was closer than any person to her.
I would have made love.
I would have tried to do what I never have.
This glass contained a liquid of a complicated colour which was made up of blended pineapple and melon, banana, mango, beetroot, and when she drank it down in one, down in one, this thick and sweet drink, it tasted like not dying and like being very so tired.
And everyone in here is lucky and they don’t know it. They have no idea how I might have spoiled their evening, who I might have been.
Meg feeling that she could grin because of this good secret. They haven’t got a clue and I won’t give one and I won’t be anyone’s accident tonight — not even my own.
And if I don’t save me, then no one else can.
And I didn’t expect Jon to try, but also — fuck him — I didn’t expect him to make things worse.
Her mouth was sweet just now and she was still thirsty — only simply and innocently thirsty — but the drinks here were expensive and it was late and really she should go.
And I didn’t expect him to hurt and be a coward and unimpressive and not himself.
Fuck him.
Fuck him so very much.
And I wouldn’t drink for him if he paid me, I wouldn’t drink for anyone, I wouldn’t fucking drink if somebody came in here with a gun and set it right to my head — I don’t fucking do that any more. I am sober. He can’t fucking touch that. I am sober.
Meg allowed herself to glance across at the mirror and see what looked like herself — this smallish, dullish person in bad clothes that would disappoint a sensitive observer — and she had anticipated that she’d have this triumphant expression and some kind of a brave grin, so now she was disappointed, as a sensitive observer would be.
I look like a kid who’s lost and out too late.
There was no grin, no smile.
She looked sad, in fact.
She was crying, in fact. She did have to admit that.
And her crying made one of the waitresses come over — friendly gesture — and offer another juice on the house, because perhaps there was nothing to be done, but someone of decency could give you a little something that might cheer you — you were a guest — or maybe a few sweets could help you, honeysweet kindness.