A/N: We all know the drill. I got started on something and wanted to see where it would go. I'm updating with two chapters at once, b/c the first chapter was a writing exercise a while back. Chapter Two gets into the fan-fiction bits.
I lay my drooping head against the bar for a moment and watch beads of condensation roll down the side of a tumbler of vodka over ice. I don't have those fancy names on my tongue anymore-on the rocks, neat, old-fashioned. Wasn't that a cocktail? The vodka slides down like water, and my face glows red. I'm so sure I've got a tattoo of spilled Schnapps on my cheek, but maybe no one will notice.
The bartender is busy with closing tabs and cleaning a night's worth of spills. The music has become more audible, a series of bassy hits and an indiscernible vocalist. A tired-looking man argues with another by the pool table.
As I cross my eyes to focus on illuminated bottles, I hear the end of a tirade and a brush at my shoulder. "What do you think?" I roll my head slowly to face a toothy grin. I get the feeling that if I don't answer, he'll keep himself company. Talking about himself to himself.
"I'll be right back," I tell him to get out of the situation. I check my face in the bathroom mirror. There are bits of my hair grabbed by the sticky pool on my cheek. Broken glass crunches under my feet. Am I wearing shoes? One heel, two heels. That's all I came with. I kick a needle, and stumble over single sink; I almost headbutt the shit-caked spigot. I try the faucet, get a trickle, and wipe the stain. Try covering it with powder. Whatever; good enough.
I find my seat and throw back the rest of my drink. I've never been so grateful for a seat. I rock on the stool, but steady myself. He keeps talking, and I wonder if he ever stopped. I'm floating in another dimension where I can't feel pain. He grabs my wrist, and I'm just confused. "Nah...", I say instinctively, but I'm still up from the bar and walking.
Why? Where?
I hear a loud snapping sound, and somehow go down with it. I grab the bar to pull myself up, and go down again. There must be a structural difficulty? It's all I can figure.
"You tripped on a glass and broke your heel." Some guy informs me from up above.
"Break the other one to even me out," I tell him with solid engineering knowledge.
He prods my ankle and calls out, "Ice and a bar towel, man." He mutters something to himself along the lines of "bullshit" and "shithole dump".
Something has shocked me into acknowledging the social contract-maybe it was the fall, or simply vodka wearing off. "Oh, that's not necessary. I can just take these off and snag a cab."
"Jesus...", he says. It's less an admonishment and more resignation. "Hand me that First Aid kit." My ankle has some pressure applied, and I hear tape ripping. "This isn't going to hold you for long, but you should be able to get home on that. There's a cab waiting outside."
He gives me his hand and pulls me up. My heel holds. "Thank you..." And I stumble into the cab.
I can't remember what I gave the cab driver for address, or if I even told him where I lived, but when the car stops, I get out at the building it's stopped at. My body gives out on a pile of leaves near a door, and the soft smell of the fall follows me into sleep.