Going Out--a very short story

The last gulp of floral, bitter pale ale flooded his mouth, finishing his sixth pint since dinner. He couldn't tell whether it was the alcohol or the loud music that made the pulsing feeling in his chest a little less bearable than usual. He hastily called to the bartender to close out his tab, picked up his jacket off the back of the stool and dropped the receipt next to his empty glass with '1.00' scribbled on the dashed tip line. He felt the weight of all their eyes on him as he left with the young blond from across the room. “Fuck them,” he told himself. Even in his mind, his voice cracked. The neon Miller Lite and Detroit Lions signs left faint glowing trails of blue and white in his peripheral vision as he pushed his way out into the mild summer night.

He suppressed the cool midnight air with a Black clove cigarette. He basked in her fawning gaze while he cupped his hand over the lighter, enjoying the crackling burn of his first drag before offering her a slender cylinder of her own. In silence, they watched their breath diffuse into silver-white wisps slithering into the streetlight. He flicked his half-finished cigarette to the curb and sauntered over to his '99 Ford Mustang that his father had called 'Lightning Blue.' They could still hear the faint din of Friday from the bar half a block away when, feigning indifference, he gestured for her to get in.

While they ascended the second flight of beige-flecked carpet up to apartment 203, he pretended that she didn't notice the suffocating smell of cigarettes that seeped through the walls. They were silent while he fumbled for his keys. They were silent when he dropped his keys. Under his breath, he apologized for the mess; she dismissed it as nothing close to how bad hers was.

He watched her shimmy out of a light blue tube top with a bulimic hunger in his eyes. Her look was confident while begging for approval. He slid up against her hips, caressing the underside of her breast while nibbling on her left earlobe. Lowering her down onto the navy sheets, he whispered into her ear to be patient—good things come to those who wait. He left her with a kiss so soft it surprised them both.

Staring into his bathroom mirror, hating the buzzing fluorescent lights that flanked his reflection, he choked down three generic extra strength ibuprofen with a swallow of what used to be his father's favorite whiskey, tossing the empty glass over his shoulder without a second thought. It hit the curved corner of the blue bathtub, shattering with an odd softness as the slide around the bend cushioned its destruction. He pressed the palm of each of his hands into one eye socket, his back heaving at every halting breath. “Is this it?” he asked the shards of glass that lay scattered throughout the bathtub, still tinted caramel with whiskey atop the baby blue porcelain.