I’m the one who comes drunk to the party. But I never leave drunk.
Because I usually pass out midway. Yes, embarrassing.
I doubt it’ll be any different today.
Still at home, I’m four drinks down, the fifth almost done, the sixth is coming with me. My driver honks furiously. I slip into the backseat, my cologne more pungent than my breath.
Nothing like a cool drink with the air-conditioning full blast. My driver keeps turning to look at me. Why does his face resemble my mother’s? I want to ask him, but he has more important problems to discuss.
He points at my glass, it’s almost empty, then at my shirt, a wet, shapeless patch graces its center. I’m drunker than I thought.
The party is all laughter and music. Neither interest me. I’ve abandoned conversations. I head straight to the bar. My legs say that way, my mind says the other. I stagger forward.
The bartender is in uniform. I raise my hand and salute him. A dutiful man deserves respect. He serves his countrymen without complaint, so much careful pouring, stirring, and shaking. Years of experience leap from his lips.
Scotch on the rocks with a twist?
What a guess! He couldn’t be more correct.
Two large gulps, and it’s gone, but he’s ready with another. I thank him and kiss his hand. It feels and smells like rubber.
I turn to leave, but sway like a fool.
Ah! A familiar face. I wave. He waves back. That boyish smile. Surely, a long-lost friend of mine.
We say hello. I can’t stop talking. He’s even more eager. I raise my glass to rediscovered friendship.
My glass hits his and he shatters into a hundred pieces.
I then pass out in front of the broken mirror.