“It’s your lucky day then. Sorry, I don’t have a lot of grown up glassware.”
“No worries. It all goes down the same.” She points to the bottles on the coffee table. “Pick your poison.”
“Vodka. Scotch is for geriatric men.”
She barks out a laugh and it loosens something inside me—tension and anger. “I happen to love scotch.”
“How is that possible? You’re not a sixty-five-year-old man.”
“Quite right, a peen and age are not required to enjoy a glass of scotch,” she says it with a straight face, which makes it funnier.
“A child’s tumbler of scotch, you mean?”
She winks. “That’s what I meant.”
I pour scotch for her and vodka for me. We toast, “Cheers.” Hers is heartfelt, mine is heartless.
We follow it up closely with two more.
And then I follow it up with another.
We sit as it dilutes our blood and our judgment.
“What do you do?” I ask. It comes out slowly, and I’m already slurring. I don’t drink often, and when I do it’s usually one beer. I’m verging on sloppy. I’m still processing everything, but it’s cloudy.
She smiles, and her jeweled eyes look sleepy, droopy from the scotch. “Hmm?” she questions.
“What do you do? You said you worked all night.”
“I work at a strip club.” She raises her eyebrows when she says it, not as a seductive gesture, it’s just an explanation. She’s sharing information and waiting for me to judge her.
And normally I would judge her. I would judge the hell out of her. But, instead I ask, “You’re a stripper?” The haziness has me curious.
She nods.
“Why?”
She shrugs. “Why not?”
“Touché. But you’re a beautiful, smart, young woman. You could do anything. Anywhere. Why that?”
She sets her cup down on the coffee table and slumps back against the cushion and gets comfortable before she answers, “It’s part of my research.”
I feel my eyes squinting in quiet assessment. “What kind of research requires stripping?”
“Life,” she says plainly.
When she says it, for some reason it makes some sense. It must be the vodka justifying the thought because sober, I wouldn’t consider agreeing with it. I’m a high school counselor; I’m supposed to try to keep women off the pole.
She begins running a few of her long dreadlocks through her fingers. I don’t know if it’s a nervous habit, but she doesn’t seem to be aware she’s doing it. “For me, I can’t understand something unless I’ve experienced it and I tend to be very judgmental by nature. But, it’s very telling when you see the world from the other side of the lens because it opens the door to self-discovery. Perspective changes everything. I prefer empathy to sympathy if I have a choice. That’s where the research comes in. I’ve packed a lot of life into the past few years trying to understand people and situations. Trying to make sense of my life. I have a lot to work through. My past is something that requires introspection and forgiveness. And that takes time. Research. When I feel like I’ve learned something about myself and grown as a person, I move on to the next journey. Hopefully with new perspective.”
I don’t know if that’s admirable or crazy, but the vodka has freed my mind a bit, and I find myself saying, “That takes courage to scrutinize yourself so closely. Usually, people avoid taking a peek through that window at all costs. They keep the curtains drawn and hide behind them.”
She shakes her head slowly and solemnly. I think she’s going to retort, but she just stares at me instead. Tears fill and recede in her eyes and I’m transfixed, unable to do anything but stare back. I have a feeling there are demons to slay in her research. It’s more complicated than she’s letting on. I don’t push, I let people share when they’re ready to. She’s not ready.
She glances to the bottles after several minutes of unspoken connection asking with her eyes if I want another shot.
I nod, and she pours.
Cups are clinked, but we skip the toast.
We drink.
When I sit back against the cushions, she stands, taking a moment to right herself on drunken legs, and leaves the room and walks down the hall toward the bathroom.
When she returns, she sits down next to me leaving no room between us. Our thighs and calves are touching. Then she rests her head on my shoulder and asks, “Are you married, Seamus?”
“No, why do you ask?”
She takes my left hand in hers and holds it up in front of my face.
“Oh,” I say when I see my wedding band. “She’s a bitch. And married to someone else now.”
She lowers our hands but slips her fingers in between mine and doesn’t let go as they rest on my lap. “That would explain why I never see her around. I thought maybe you were a widow because you always seem so sad.”