"We could be daytime drunks if we wanted. We'd never get anything done that way, baby." - Jenny Lewis





"Another round, puh-please," I stammer in a drunken rush to get all the words out, shaky hand raised in the air, indicating that the little red haired chick did just downed another glass of whatever swill I've been drinking for the last few hours. I look straight ahead at the digital clock plastered across the top of the excessively decorated back wall. 12:45 PM. Bars shouldn't even be open this early, and I'm already drunk. The bartender comes over and slides another bottle right where my eager, open palm rested. I catch it and start drinking without hesitation. Whatever it is tastes like stale piss, but at this point I either don't mind the taste, or I don't really care what it tastes like.

Instead of going back to his other business, like not standing next to me, the bartender decides to stand in the exact spot he was when he slid the bottle to me. He keeps maintained eye contact on me for what feels like eternity, all the while I keep the bottle pressed to my lips as if it were superglued. My mouth gets filled to the brim, and after a couple more seconds of keeping the bottle up, I force myself to swallow and almost spit some of the pisswater out all over the counter. Coughing, I set the bottle down and my worst fears are realized.

"Now hun, are you alright?" his gruff voice asked with just a hint of warmness. Yeah, he was talking to me, unfortunately. In response, I make a show out of looking down at the wooden counter, away from him. Keeping my head pointed downward, I can't help but move my eyes up to see if he took the hint and walked off, which of course he didn't. It became obvious that he wasn't going to budge until I humored him, so reluctantly I conjure up an answer.

"Never better," I say with a cheap, plastic smile that bends and twists back into its natural position: a scowl. "What's it to you, anyway?"

He starts to mumble, trying to find the right combination of words while I turn my attention back to the bottle. I empty the rest of the contents into my mouth and force the liquid down my throat before placing the now empty container back on the counter where I picked it up from. "I need to slow down," I mutter to no one.

"You see? That's why I'm asking!" he exclaims.

"What? The fact that I'm," I start before hiccuping in an attempt to gasp. "Drinking? In a bar?! Stop the presses!" One of the other, presumably more regular patrons of this shithole establishment laughs heartily, spewing some incomprehensible drivel at the bartender. I'm glad I'm not at that point, at the very least. That still doesn't change the fact that I'm, in this moment at the very least, the female Tony Santos.

Ugh, just thinking about that makes me cringe. Definitely going to slow it down. Unimpressed by the drunk's outburst, the bartender refocuses his attention to me, still trying to think of what to say.

"I've seen one too many people come in here and drink like this to know that something's wrong, hun."

"Well right now there is a problem: don't fucking call me hun."

"Okay, fine. Whatever you want." He comes closer to the counter, resting his hands on the corner. Something compels me to stand up and walk out, but the very real threat of me falling over like an idiot on the way out stops me. I keep my eyes fixed on his, and he does the same, a smile that I'm sure is supposed to be reassuring, but I find creepy as all fucking hell crosses his face. "Now, you wanna talk about whatever it is that's bothering you?"

The guy was persistent, I'll give him that much.

"Only if you tell me exactly why you care so fucking much."

"That sounds like a fair deal," he says. "Look around you; I know these people, some of 'em have been comin' in here for five, ten, fifteen years even! I know how much they drink normally, and which ones of 'em are drunks. But when a pretty little thing like you storms in and starts drinkin' the way you've been, I start to take notice."

"So, your entire reasoning for confronting me is based solely on the fact that I'm attractive and not a regular? Maybe my problem is that I'm a drunk and I got kicked out of my bar of choice, did you ever think about that?"

"Nah, you don't look the type."

"The fuck is that supposed to mean? Drunks are their own ethnicity and look different?"

"You'd understand what I meant if you've been around drunks as long as I have." Well, I guess I didn't have an argument for that. I also guess that it's my turn to answer, and his prying eyes confirm this suspicion.

"Well, you're right. There is something wrong," I begin before he nods at me, silently urging me to continue. "I got into an argument before coming here, and now I'm fairly certain that my life is very much at risk the next time I see her."

"Who is she?"

I wrack my brain, trying to come up with an answer that really gives a telling insight into the type of girl Espie is, to little avail.

"She's, indescribable." That was the answer I finally settled on. I suppose I could've said a little more than that, but in my own drunken stupor, I forgot most of the English language and was lucky to not be babbling like an idiot.

"I see..."

"Yeah, and I kinda went and lost my temper with her, and now I'm sure she wants to kill me. It doesn't help that we're required to be in the same room as each other for work later on tonight."

"Where do you work? I highly doubt they're going to let someone as intoxicated as you come in."

"The XWF. You know, the wrestling company that gives the rules of what's okay for television a giant middle finger every day of the week?"

"No kiddin'? What's it like working in the back offices and whatnot?" Is he fucking serious right now?

"I don't. I'm a wrestler, matter of fact the show tonight is all the way out in-" I start before the shock and revelation hits me. "Toronto." I fish my wallet out of my back pocket and slam a handful of twenty dollar bills onto the counter before hopping out of my seat and rushing out the door. "Keep the change" I yell as I ran out of the building and down the sidewalk.

I stop momentarily pull my phone out of my pocket and stare at the the list of recent calls, the previously mysterious number taking up the bulk of my attention. Just as I'm about to push the redial button, I slide it back into my pocket. I'll find her before our match and apologize. Yeah, that's what I'll do. I throw my hand in the air and whistle for a taxi cab that just so happened to be driving down the street at the most opportune moment. The driver pulls over, right in front of me, and I hop in the backseat.

"Portland International Airport."

I just hope I don't fuck this up. As the cab jumps back into the fray of traffic, I lean back in my seat, another odd tidal wave of thoughts and feelings wash through my brain. I stare out the window at the rolling pretentiousness that is downtown Portland, Oregon, watching but not focusing on anything. The driver starts to talk, but his words come out as little more than an assortment of noises as the thoughts begin forcing their way deeper into my train of conscious thought. One thought in particular, a memory from the argument earlier becomes the most prominent as I start to digest a string of words I don't think I even picked up on when they were said:

"Please don't let this hurt us..." I hear her voice off in the distance, almost as if she was saying it at this very moment. It repeats over and over again in my head, leaving me with one question:

What did she mean by "us"?