#it's still good my brain is just very primed for The Hot Drink With Dairy In to have way more going on than this now lmao

[blujayonthewing]

so it turns out that when you're in the habit of drinking dark roast coffee with cream and flavored syrups every morning if you switch back to black tea with milk it does not taste like very much

[you-exist-in-words]

as boats against the current

we beat on

but for what?

I knew those were the the best moments of my life; what I didn’t realize was how shit the rest would be.

*

We were all wearing sweatpants, makeup free, hair in messy buns. No one gave a damn. The three of us stepped out of the air-conditioned bubble of Leah’s house, and into the soft night air. It was sticky outside, but the breeze blew through us like the leaves on the trees that rustled above our heads. I felt pure and on top of the world.

“Who’s car?” Jessica asked.

I held up my arm, rattling the keys to my parent’s Honda CRV. I was arguably the worst driver of us all, but I had parked at the back of the driveway, and their empty wine glasses in the kitchen sink said I was the best option right now.  

“Shotgun!” Jessica said. She pronounced it in a sing song voice with the emphasis on the second syllable. Usually she would have offered the front seat to Rachel, but she was a little tipsy and in a definitely don’t care mood. 

“Okay,” Rachel conceded. “But I get the aux”. We piled into the car. Rachel plugged in her phone. I started the engine. We rolled down the windows and the sunroof. I cranked the volume. 

Don't get me wrong, it's pretty cool to be on TV

So all the folks back home can see me

And that I'm livin' it out

All the things I used to dream about

Mason Ramsey’s cookie cutter, nasally, 10 year old voice boomed through the car speakers and out the windows. We screamed along with the lyrics as I accidentally reversed over Rachel’s boulevard and the car bounced backwards over the curb, heaving on the shocks. It took us the length of the song (3 minutes and 13 seconds) to cruise around the block and pull up in front of Dairy Queen. 

Slight variations of this exact scene played out at least a couple times a week. Sometimes we went to Tim Hortons. Sometimes Rachel or Jessica drove. The feeling was always the same. We were alive with summer nights coursing through our veins like our own personal brand of heroine; the high was endless.

*

“Gin and tonic. A double please. Hendrick. You have cucumber?” I drop my purse and jacket to the ground as I say all of this. The stool screeches obnoxiously against the floor. The bartender nods and starts to mix my drink. 

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing here at 3pm on a Sunday?”

If the room wasn’t already spinning around me like some fucked up solar system I didn’t ask to be a part of, I’d get up and leave right now.

“No.” I say flatly. The conversation mercifully ends there. 

*

“I’m here!” I declared, knocking on the door as I let myself into Asia’s house. A chorus of hellos from various rooms was returned to me by her family members. A moment later, Jessica galloped down the stairs.

“Hiiiiyeeeee,” she posed and smiled with a tilt of her head. Iconic. I threw her back a peace sign and we headed up the stairs to her room. Jessica’s room had changed very little in the ten years I’d known her. Her day bed was folded up into a single, which left plenty of room for the trenches of laundry on the floor. Her suitcase lay open, perpetually half packed because she was always going back and forth from somewhere. One wall was a blackboard that said things we had written years before like Rachel loves you, circled in a crude chalk heart. I left my bag on the floor and crawled into her bed. She went over to her full length mirror and examined her hair. 

“Should I curl it?” she asked. I looked at the time. We only had about 30 minutes before we had to leave and we still had to eat, drink, get dressed, finish my makeup, and walk downtown. At the same time she looked stunning in curls. 

“Try baby pig tails and then if that doesn’t work we can do curls.” I could do my own makeup if need be, and we didn’t really have to eat until later. I got out of bed, pulled off my shirt, went to the bathroom and started priming my face. A few minutes later, Asia’s hand appeared from around the corner and placed a half can of cider on the counter. 

“What do we think of this hair,” she sashayed into the bathroom.

“Ooo very good, definitely yes,” I answered. We drank, we chatted, we sang along to pump up music while she helped me to finish my makeup. 

Not half an hour later, we were dressed and ready in tight black clothes and matching dark lipstick. We put our shoes on by the front door while trying to down the last few sips of our second shared cider. 

The night air blew life into our lungs and song into our souls. Headlights passed like strings of twinkling lights. The sidewalk was our path to anywhere. I held Jessica’s hand because I wanted to share every second of closeness. For once, we weren’t separated by cities, or continents or even air; everything was movement and laugher and lightness.

*

After giving him the Ice Queen attitude the bartender is ignoring me and I find this annoying. I watch him fiddle with glasses and wipe down the already pristine marble counter top. Soft jazz plays in the background. When he turns around again I wave him over, my fresh French manicure catches the light, overshadowed only by the massive diamond on my finger. I put on a cutesy smile.

“I’m sorry for before I’m just having a bit of a day.” I think I might sound crazy. “You know how that happens”. I don’t know if he’s actually unsurprised by my sudden shift in attitude or if his poker face is just good, but he smiles genuinely. 

“Forget about it,” he says dismissively. He starts to turn around again, to do what I’m not sure. Polish the already shinning crystal glasses? 

“You know something,” I start. Trying for his attention again. I wonder why I’ve got to be such a bitch. I lurch a bit on my bar stool, but lean forward into the counter, putting my elbows on the bar for more stability. 

“Everyone is fucked; no one was ever loved enough”. Someone told me that once. But it’s not true. I was loved enough. I just lost it. I laugh out loud, effectively interrupting whatever he might have come up with in response to my absurd outburst. It’s a high pealing sound like bells ringing a hundred miles away. Bells that I can’t see through this fog.

*

We sat in my kitchen in varied states of hungover. Birds chirped from the open window, their energy expanding like the heat of the rising sun. We were all looking at our phones, occasionally showing a meme of something stupid that someone we knew had posted on social media. Hot coffee was already in mugs on the counter. Rachel went to the fridge.

“What kind of milk do you have?”

“I think there’s soy, almond, coconut and regular… orange juice if you fancy a twist,” I mimed a shimmy at this last suggestion. Rachel made a face and put the carton of almond milk in front of us. The fridge clattered to a close behind her. Jessica laughed but didn’t look up from her phone. The stillness of the morning and the quiet of the house, emphasized our togetherness. After a chaotic night at the bar, shrouded in the haze of tequila, blaring music and finally, burritos—the silence was much needed. 

Eventually, I clunked my phone down on the counter.

“I’m hungry, what’s our breakfast plan?”

We murmured back and forth contemplating where we wanted to eat. 

“39 Carden might be good, we could sit on the patio”

“Yeah but they changed their breakfast menu and it’s medium”

“We could do symposium, it’s close”

“But their food sucks and its expensive”

“What about Angel’s, it’s a classic… and cheap,” Rachel suggested.

A general nod circulated between us.

Sitting in the vintage teal and red booth at Angel’s Dinner was like being in a time warp. The world stopped spinning. We could have been 50 years in the past or 20 in the future. This place never seemed to change, and neither did our friendship. Against all odds, some things last.

*

“Can I get a shot of vodka too,” the words feel heavy in my mouth and thick in my brain. I barely acknowledge the bartender, I’ve gone back to ignoring him. The shot appears in front of me. There is no one else around. Empty bar, empty bottle. This is where I find comfort; when you have nothing, it can’t be taken away. I know it’s unfair, but I’m angry at you, at myself, at the state of the world. I feel like a screaming spec in the universe, asking to be a part of it, and asking for it to end.

This is what it’s come to—empty chairs at empty tables… at least Marius’ friends were dead. Mine are just ghosts of the past.