FireWhiskey
Disclaimer: All materials belong to J.K. Rowling.
You walk into the bar. It is dimly light, dusty, and smells of age and mold, but you aren't there to judge the decorations of the bar, your there to drink and forget.
You find a seat at the bar. On one side of the bar there is a man, he's dressed in a white tuxedo—well you're sure it was at one time; now gray with multi color blotches. On the other is a woman dressed in the finest from twenty years ago. A fur coat ruined by liquid, vodka you presume, her dress gives the appearance of silk, but it is an imitation and rips and holes from moths make it look cheap, the stocking were ripped, and the shoes scuffed. Her face, once beautiful, now drooped, covered with lines; her eyes now holes in her skull. Moths had ruined her clothes; time had ruined her face.
"What'll have?" The bartender asks. He's about fifty, his voice hoarse and deep. The features and the voice was like something out of an old gangster movie; he was big, intimidating, the voice of a bad guy speaking from the shadows.
"FireWhiskey." You say. It's been a long day; you need a drink. Silently behind the counter he prepares your drink.
The liquid was, like the name suggested, fire red. It instantly reminds you of her hair. You reach out, and bottoms up!
The liquid burns; a trail of fire from your mouth, through your esophagus, and then finally exploding in your stomach. You feel your face wince, but you ask for another.
The second doesn't have the same effect as the first, but it still leaves a fire. By the ninth, you can't even feel your heart beat inside your chest, let alone the fire. A smile spreads across your face. You've come to feel numb, and you've done just that.
You look at the clock on the wall:11:27. You have thirty-three minutes to make a decision: yes or no.
You remember the eyes, staring up at you, demanding, pleading for an answer. But you couldn't answer. How could you? It had only a month, but she needed an answer. "I have to be somewhere…" you answered in a grunt. That was almost eight hours ago and your answer had yet to slap you in the face.
"Do you love me?" her voice ringing in your head, adding to the throbbing; a taste of what's to come tomorrow morning. "Yes, Ginny, I love you. Your brain answers. The answer. You do love her!
Despite the alcohol flowing through your veins, you walk as if you were on a cloud. Love was a splendid thing. You see a mirror: your green eyes are tired, your black hair more disheveled than ever, the famous scar; your surprised that no one noticed, but the smile on your face pulls everything together. The answer for the eyes had come. Love made him drunk.Youare a happy drunk.
The End