Happy New Year
Tags: Fiction, Love, Sexuality, Alcoholism, Literally Literary

Nothing like the last year where problems snowballed and each day was the same or even worse; like a step further to the center of a maze. This maze that you are in right now. Not this year. No, you are wiser now and strong willed and twenty-one.

Lately, things have been hot and humid and then sad and clear and with a fantastic pleasure of the pain that grips you. Like it gripped you in the silent street at the dark of the night. And the following night, and every night for a full week. And during the middle of the day next week. In the middle of the road behind the lake where no one comes during the day time. The sweet winter sun was up and she smelled of baby powder and the car smelled a sweet fragrance which you made together. It smelled sweet with the warm breaths and trembling curves and rhythmic beat-like thrusts and throbs of pleasure and soft moaning music beside your ears. And later, with only lingering smooth hands gently rubbing and bodies cooling, it felt sticky and the smell changed and it wasn’t sweet anymore. Then you tried to make it again so that the smell would feel sweet again but someone caught you during the second try and you realized the sun was up and the lights were on again and you had to drive away.

You realized the price only when the pleasure disappeared. But before that, there was nothing at all. It is almost like this next glass of whiskey. Cold glass with water settling and dripping and kissing the tips of your fingers. The cool grip hardens your fingers around the smooth curve of the glass. And for a moment it seems that you and this glass of whiskey are the only things in the entire bar. No friends around you in a semi-circle sitting on the comfortable brown leather couches singing, drinking along with the loud melodies of the band on the stage. Her smell of baby powder doesn’t remind you of anything and the only sweet smell is the one coming from the glass.

The whiskey inside the glass looks dark at the table. Almost the same color as the couch. Big thick ice cubes slowly melting, dissolving, adding more depth to the drink. The first one was neither this dark nor sweet. But you drank it anyway — it was the beginning of something new. The first, pale yellow, glass that you held in the air with your arms stretched and then clinked with everyone made you rejoice the youth of the evening. Looking at the glass in the air against the light from the stage reminded you of the early spring this year. How the sun used to shine through the window every day in the morning. Almost every morning for days and weeks and months. But spring had been a lonely time and the studies went bad because one day your foot slipped and you fell down the stairs and you were injured for a month. It sounded foolish to have been injured by falling from the stairs. Very childish. And that was unacceptable now. Being childish now seemed like a distant reality. Even thinking about it was useless and you enjoyed the first mild drink instead.

After the first drink, there was a gradual downpour of people joining the bar. They were coming from the cold dry parking lot of one of the busiest parts of the city. When you arrived in the car you hurried out ahead to throw the newly bought and emptied bottles of beer in a grey metallic trash bin. Sitting in the car for fifteen minutes had already been painful enough. You give them your names to enter. Tall strong men writing down your name and carefully looking at your face. Standing there you could hear the music coming from the bar downstairs. Then, more people arrived in groups or in pairs. Never alone. You could not enter alone in that bar on the evening of the last day of the year. The newcomers walked steadily. People returning from the washroom were happy and mostly they were coming alone. Their faces told jubilant stories. They had been there to drink more. Gliding, flying, bumping, apologizing, and walking. The staggering steps took you to the wooden brown stairs and then upstairs towards the restroom which smelled like fresh lemons. Pissing was a blissful experience. You realized this elation after your fifth drink.

And all that was four drinks ago. It was early in the evening. Now the dark brown whiskey with only ice, no water or soda, blocked the light from the stage when you look through the glass. You raise it high but keep it close to you. You are surrounded by fuzzy movements, vague voices, muffled music, disconnected conversations, and you don’t feel anything other than yourself and this glass of whiskey. It is hot around. Your body feels warm. Put the cold glass on your forehead. You can touch it better now. Be subtle or there will be questions and people. Lean towards the table and the glass. Make it look normal. The condensed water touching, relaxing, pleasing your forehead. Roll the glass over your forehead. The water detaching then sticking with your skin. It is like painting your head with water. Like men of war used to paint their head. Time to take a sip now. Bring the glass to your mouth casually. The fragrance even stronger now. You can even smell the remaining ice. Although, it shouldn’t smell of anything. But you can smell the ice and it is such a damned shame that you can. Gulp down the fucking drink and get it over with.

The band is playing love songs now. The watch shows five minutes to midnight. Perfect time to play them. Everyone is drunk and everyone is in love now. Even if they were all right three hours ago, they are in love now. Everyone is singing the love songs passionately. Everyone feels closer to each other and they are getting dangerously outspoken about personal matters and thoughts. You’ve been coveting her for a while now and you try to steal a glance while pretending to casually look away from your drink. Slowly. Looking above your drink and letting the eyes lurk and linger at the sight of her but still moving your head above with serene fluidity. It has to look natural. How dare you miss looking at her when she doesn’t miss it. She looks straight ahead and sings and moves her body but her face is solemn.

In less than five minutes everyone will have egregious affections. And not just because of the drinks. Wrapping, kissing, hugging with the newfound sincerity invoked by equal proportions of alcohol mixed with societal charades. You have the next drink in front of you, ready to be dealt with. It is a deal that you make with yourself and with whiskey. It promises to make you happy instantly, and kill you gradually. It is a good deal and you are regular in honoring this deal. And you know that it will honor its part of the deal a long way down the road. And you know that you can happily love her right now even though she is five hundred miles away from you. You decide it is time for the drink to honor either of its two promises when you gulped down the next drink in one fell swoop.

It is almost midnight now. You excuse yourself as you need to use the washroom and you realize you’ve drunk enough when you try to stand up. And it makes the brick wall go round and round and the pictures hanging all over the wall spin round and round but the band keeps playing and you know that you must be quick. The bar, which is opposite to the brick wall, is still busy but you know better than to think about drinks now. An older couple get a pair of wine glasses and the bartender has the bottle in his hands delicately, artistically, but you look away and didn’t see the red wine trickle down and fill up the fresh glasses. The bar is shaking, or you are shaking and you might throw up if you aren’t careful. Hold the handrail of the stairs. Think of something else. Birds flapping away and into the clouds. Too high! It was, perhaps, the worst mistake to get involved and get cozy with our sweaty bodies beneath the open skies. You look back at your table and your seat is empty and there is no drink at the black table in front of it. You don’t look at anyone. It will be better to stay hidden until the new year stupidity is over.

Each step is difficult. It’ll get easier. You know that from experience. It should get easier. It is tough to climb these stairs. There was a new year’s pact you made to run two kilometers every day of the year. So, by the end you’d have covered more than seven hundred kilometers. That sounded so cool. Or was this a leap year?

TEN

The countdown has started already. Quickly now. You cannot be seen when it happens. You have seen it happen in your mind and you wouldn’t be able to see it. Perhaps if you had run those seven hundred plus kilometers you would’ve been able to escape this place already. Do you need to go to the washroom at all? Haven’t you escaped enough already?

NINE

Maybe you can go outside instead. The stairs aren’t getting easier to climb and there are more people coming downstairs, and shouting.

EIGHT

Careful not to slip in front of everyone. It will be embarrassing and painful. More people coming downstairs.

Hey man. Are you all right?

Yeah. Just need to go to the washroom.

FOUR

The wooden handrail is round and the most comfortable thing you have experienced tonight. It has deep grooves etched into it and you can feel their absence every time you slide your hand while climbing the next step. The nausea is building up and the dreaded eruption is almost at your throat. You manage to mitigate it with a deep breath and an empty swallow.

TWO

You can hear the firecrackers outside now. The stairs are almost over and the stale burnt air enters your lungs. Perhaps the restroom is the better option. Just one more step now. And you would have successfully escaped. There is someone behind you and you feel a cold hand nudging at your back.

Hey. Remember Me?

ONE