Disclaimer: Community does not belong to me.
SOBER DISILLUSIONS
She is the last person that Troy brings home from the night at the bar.
The others had been a chaotic mess, with Abed shutting down like a broken robot, Annie dripping to a puddle of loss and uncertainty, and Jeff shouting obnoxiously for Troy to remember, for the sixth time, to return his car keys after he drops everyone off or else… Troy doesn't know, because Jeff slurs by the end of his sentence, searching for something witty to say through his alcohol-infested brain. Jeff never says anything unless it's witty, charming, and contrived. When his words are stripped of farce, he may find that he has nothing valuable to give. So he slurs, avoiding a smart comment, like he avoids many other things in life.
One example is the woman who had been lying beside him.
When the tires softly screech to a stop and Troy opens the backdoor, Britta is the only person left. Her body is draped lazily over the seats, and he hopes that Jeff won't spot her drool on the leather tomorrow morning. Troy gently nudges the blonde to wake and helps her out of the car. Her feet move as if they're trying to draw X's on the ground, and she makes little noises between a snort and a giggle. Troy cracks some dumb jokes as they step onto her porch, so that while she responds back with chuckles and vigorous nodding, he can believe she finds him witty.
Britta's eyebrows pinch together as she fumbles for her purse. She's too tired to protest when Troy's hands tangle with hers. He fishes out her keys, and the door clicks open. The faint smell of cocktails drifts away as her shadow skulks ahead. Her outline in the pitch black room stops with a yelp and then a thump.
Alarmed, Troy switches the light on and finds Britta sprawled on the floor, her leg twisted around the cord of a discman. The birthday boy groans as he steps his way around the piles of worn clothes and unopened textbooks.
"C'mon, Britta, you're embarrassing yourself," he says, gawking at her face lying flat on the carpet. "… I mean, a discman? Really?"
"They're retro," she muffles.
He pulls the drunken woman up and finds it surprisingly easy to carry her stumbling body towards the bedroom, no matter how much she flaps her arms in objection. Her breath reeks of alcohol as she goes on another verbal rampage about the need for another women's movement if she can't get inside a bed without a man thinking he can assist. Troy never understood the difference between being a 'man' and 'woman'. He thinks all that really matters is that he's Troy and she's Britta.
"You lost me at 'suffrage'," Troy says. "Just go to sleep and rest, Britta."
Britta refuses to back down onto the bed sheets. "Me? Why only me?" She jabs a haughty finger his way. "You stay here, too. Stay for the night."
Troy laughs. He's heard plenty of girls say the same request in his high school years, but this is Britta he's dealing with. She isn't exactly the hot cheerleader type he goes for. The thought never crosses his mind.
"Jeff will kill me if the car's not at his place by tomorrow morning. I gotta get going."
He tries to put her hand down, but the blonde wraps her fingers around his, pushing him back slightly that he almost falls backwards. Her balance isn't stable, he notices, as he tries to catch the both of them. She keeps leaning forward, her head nodding off.
"I don't want you to leave."
Her words are so quiet they're almost like a murmur. Troy blinks, looks down at the woman clinging onto him, and wonders if the sleepy daze of his mind had imagined that tinge of desperation in Britta's voice. She beetles her forehead, and the skin around her eyes draw tight.
"Britta…?"
She gazes up at him, and he notices her face is different from before. Shadows drift through her vision, and even as Britta leans forward, Troy can't see past the hazy fog in her eyes.
"I love you," she whispers.
The little drum in Troy's chest nearly lunges out of his body. He freezes up like a statue, one with goosebumps jumping all over as Britta wraps her arms around his neck.
Her breath is hot on his face, but he can't smell the alcohol anymore. Instead, the scent of her lotion flares his nostrils. The dim lamp above them shines a warm glow over her face, half-covered by her tousled blonde curls.
He doesn't know, after a whole night of drinking, how her hair can still look so soft, or smell like green apples, the scents that always make him regret watching her walk away after every study group session. But not this time. Now, she's completely in his arms.
Troy sees the clouds in her eyes are still there, floating behind her face like passing shadows. Britta's half-lidded eyes gloss over him, and he isn't sure what she's looking at anymore.
She murmurs, "Kiss me."
Troy doesn't know what he's doing. All he knows is that he's leaning forward so much he might be falling. For what?
She breathes.
"Jeff…"
He stops. Britta's arms unravel like broken strings, and Troy snaps back to reality as she falls backwards onto the bed. Her head lands on the pillow. Her eyes close, her chest moves with quiet snores, and her mouth is left hanging open.
Troy finds that so is his.
He shuts his jaw, rubs his mouth, and feels nothing but chapped lips. He gazes back at the woman sleeping peacefully before him. Her arm is draped over her head, and her legs tangle up the blanket. Her forehead is still crumpled. Britta sleeps like a child with her body, but never with her troubled face.
Slowly, Troy steps backwards. He closes the door without making a single creak. He tucks her keys under the mat. He writes a note so Britta can know where they are tomorrow morning.
Troy's handwriting was never pretty, but this time it looks uglier. The blue ink bleeds on the paper in little quivers. His right hand is too shaky, but so is his left, too.
He slides the note under the door. Then he leaves, the jangling of car keys his only noise in the silence of midnight.
A strange feeling surpasses him as Troy sits in the car by himself. Somehow, the passengers had left all their drunken miseries behind as they departed, leaving their old glooms to wallow up inside the cramped space of the car.
Troy wonders how alcohol can make people sad even if they're not drinking it.
He guesses maybe this is just part of growing up.
End.