The Bar Is A Beautiful Place (short story)

“I think I actually, like, fell asleep in the middle.” This clearly gains a positive reaction as someone actually lets out a noise certainly on a par with an elated pig inhaling. I stand up and unsteadily head through the strobe lights towards the bar, wrapping my ankles on a stray jacket and almost nosediving onto the gooey floor.
The bar-woman is stern faced and addresses me with as few syllables as possible. I point fixedly a drink offer for ‘Tuesday Madness’ and she returns after a few minutes with a double whiskey. Her features melt and contort in the uncomfortable heat. Heading back to my seat something completely unfathomable happens and I wake up in gutter around 4am smelling distinctly of urine and cigarettes.

The next night is planned much better and I am sitting alone quite happily in a 50s theme establishment with my head on the sleek surface of the bar humming ‘American Pie’. The staff are clearly well-trained and a different member of staff attends to me every half hour or so to check for vital signs without even the slightest hint of a smile.

Thursday night is the low-point of a week devoid of anything other than low-points. I can’t seem to reach anything beyond the stage of mildly intoxicated and every single one of my friends is an intolerable bore. I get a taxi home alone around 1am and sleep soundly. I dream of floating in a swimming pool in a shining light as the sides slowly deteriorate and dissolve in the chlorine until I lie in an endless ocean staring at the light and rotating slowly akin to a giant microwave.

I am invigorated and hopeful as the doors open and my eyes adjust to the intermittent lights and my nose composes itself from the sting of dry ice. After several drinks I am exposed to everyone’s greatest wit and observations, laughing like a hyena at a story about a friend of a friend who once got his head stuck in a blender and someone’s far cousin who once fell into a grain silo. As the day fades into the Sabbath my body relaxes accordingly on a subconscious level and I happily play out the rest of the night in a soft, comfortable corner sipping cheap wine and meeting those who happen to pass my way with kind words and clever remarks. Recognisable faces are met with dramatic exclamations and wonderfully insightful conversations bordering on the two-minute mark before excuses are made and we part company.

I stand in the shower for close to an hour, head rested on the wall, my fingertips contoured at steep echelons before stumbling into my room and collapsing on the bed. Most of daylight passed without me and I am greeted by a strange feeling of disorientation at the sight of the setting sun. After a few minutes enjoying a level of hush I make my way to the kitchen for a glass of water, dusting the crust from my eyelashes and coughing out the taste of cigarettes.