Mixed Drinks
She was searching for something she wouldn’t find below three half melted ice cubes and an alcohol infused maraschino cherry. Randy had gone to the bathroom, stumbling and swearing about liquor and how he was too good for her. The only other people in the all night diner were the man behind the counter and another man seated on the other side of the L shape from her. The other customer had been watching her since Randy left. Estelle didn’t know what to make of him, and Randy was certainly the jealous type, so she was avoiding eye contact. It was too late for her to keep drinking, she knew that, but she didn’t think she’d be able to finish out the night if she let herself be sober.
Randy was the kind of boyfriend who sucked the life out of the girl he was with totally and completely. He was charming, charismatic around others, especially women, but moody and prone to violence when it was just the two of them. Estelle’s bright red lipstick seemed to be dripping from her lips like blood, and her glossy brown hair melting from its perfectly curled state. Appearances were the most important aspect of a relationship to Randy.
It was two in the morning and Estelle was no longer sure she wanted to be the one to carry Randy home and put him to bed. She was tired, she wanted to remove the wilting person she had created to be tonight, and she did not want to have to wake up to Randy’s face on the rumpled pillow next to her in the morning. The feeling of the heavy, unarticulated thoughts turned into a half fizzy vortex of melting ice and coke; the dregs of her drink.
Across the counter, the stranger raised his glass, toasting her. Estelle, momentarily startled by the movement, jerked her drink back and looked over at him.
“Here’s to you and your dead end relationship” the stranger proclaimed, downing the rest of his drink and signaling the bartender for another one.
Estelle stared. He didn’t know her. How dare he comment on her relationship like that?
The stranger stood up and sashayed over to the barstool Randy had so recently vacated. Estelle was unable to find her voice, a truly rare occurrence for her before she met Randy.
“What are you drinking?” the stranger inquired. “Or, rather, what were you drinking before you started studying your ice cubes like you were about to write a novel on them?”
“Rum and coke,” Estelle squeaked out, in a voice that sounded nothing like her own.
The stranger signaled to the bartender and called out the order, then turned and looked over at Estelle with a studious air.
“Who’s the loser?” he demanded.
Estelle’s lipstick twisted ruefully around her teeth, trying to think of anything she could give in Randy’s defense.
The stranger smirked knowingly. “How long have you two been together, six months? Nine months?”
“Between seven and eight,” Estelle whispered, reaching gratefully for the fresh glass the bartender slid across the counter to her.
“Not married, I assume?” the stranger asked.
Estelle shook her head.
“Pregnant?” The stranger continued his probing.
Mortified, Estelle shook her head more vigorously this time. The stranger chuckled at her horror and took a sip of his drink.
“So what’s his deal? Why is a girl like you with a guy like him?” The stranger was relentless, asking her the questions that had been silently raking her body since Randy slapped her in the face five months ago and she didn’t even raise her hands in defense.
She took a deep breath and began to tell the story of how Randy’s eyes had ensnared her since she first met them at a mutual friend’s house. How he made her feel alive and wanted. The whispers of drugs and other women couldn’t shake how he made the butterflies dance in her stomach and her knees wobble underneath her skirt when he kissed her. It was exhilarating, intoxicating; she couldn’t get enough.
The stranger nodded and sighed at all the right parts and the bartender cast her pitying looks between wiping down the counters and straightening glasses. Midway through month four of her ill-fated relationship, Randy came bursting out of the bathroom, stumbling over himself, clearly obliterated.
“Stell! Stell!” he called, his voice demanding in the nearly empty diner. Randy’s eyes slide around the counter, taking longer than they should have to focus on Estelle, sitting slightly closer to the stranger than she intended. Stell felt the letters she had gained in his absence slowly slip away from her with every labored step Randy took towards her.
She took a deep breath and focused her energy onto Randy’s sagging, dripping, face.
“I’m just talking to…what’s your name?”
The stranger smirked into his drink behind Randy’s back.
“Maximillian,” he replied, spinning around on his stool to lounge against the back of the counter.
Randy heaved his eye from Stell to Maximillian.
“You trying to get with my girl, huh?”
Maximillian, half shrugged and took a sip of his drink.
“She’s not your girl, Randy, is it? Though you seem to think you’ve spent the necessary money on her.”
Stell glared at Maximillian, then got up, moving towards Randy.
“Just leave, come on. He’s no one.”
Stell tried to pull Randy towards the door, muttering nonsense about how it was late and he should be in bed, get some sleep.
Randy looked vaguely down at his arm and then back at the stranger.
“I paid all the money I needed to for her.” Then he let Stell pull him towards the door.
Stell looked back as she passed the window looking in on the stranger, still lounging on his bar stool. He raised his glass to her, as if saluting.
This is your battle, sweetheart.
Halfway down the block, Estelle paused and looked back over her shoulder.
Annie Warner is currently a student at Salisbury University and the Non-Fiction Editor for this year’s edition of the school’s literary magazine. This acceptance is her first publication in a literary journal.