fff #53: Liquid courage

Via Pilot House Marina

Maura tipped her head back and drained the dregs of the bottle. The amber rum drip, drip, dripped onto the tip of her tongue and down her throat, molasses heat and numbness. She didn’t see the allure, really. Never had. The kitchen was spotless, but for a glass or two, a jumble of beer bottles and a lone shot glass.

She grabbed the bottles, three to a hand, separated by a finger, careful to keep the clinking to a minimum, and eased them into the trash. The kids were long in bed and it wouldn’t do to wake them. It wouldn’t do for them to mistake the kitchen for a bar come morning. It wouldn’t do for Nina to have to deal with Sam’s mess when she let herself in tomorrow either.

It had been a good evening, considering. Three sets of nose kisses and the kids were down. Sam had poured two drinks — rum, neat. He was already several beers in. Maura eyed him warily as he tossed the rum back and poured another. He’d always looked delicious in a tux. She sipped slowly, the glass slippery between satin-gloved hands, a little liquid courage before they had to mix and mingle. Then they were telling Nina they’d be back and they were out the door. Sam’s eyes didn’t quite have their familiar glassy sheen yet, which was always a good sign.

She stayed in the rotation of his universe, sipping slowly, laughing at his clever jokes in intimate circles, watching him from afar when she was swept away by nasal debutantes. When Sam was on, he was in his element and it was magical to watch, the way people gravitated to him, eager for the sun.

Always the women tried to push another glass in her hand, clucking when she refused, teasing her for nursing instead of drinking and being merry, but someone had to keep it together. Someone had to get them home. Someone had to watch Sam. She didn’t bother to enlighten these women with their perfect hair and perfect smiles. If nobody ever understands, you give up trying to explain.

The sound of glass breaking cracked through the room like a shot. Heads jerked up. A murmur swept through the crowd. Sam looked bewildered. “You’d swear I was the one wearing gloves,” he said giddily. Then he laughed and a chorus joined in. It was her sign to pack it in.

Back in the car, away from an audience, Sam began winding down. By the time they pulled into the driveway, he’d nodded off. Maura sighed. She’d hoped they’d make it home in time. There was no waking him now. She slipped her heels off and slipped inside to let Nina go.  

The bottles and glasses were just where they’d left them. Knowing Nina, she’d been too polite to show she’d seen. Maura grabbed the bottles, three to a hand, separated by a finger, careful to keep the clinking to a minimum, and eased them into the trash. She peered out the kitchen window at her husband still slumped in the passenger seat, no doubt snoring slightly.

Tomorrow, the sun would rise and the neighbours would come out to mow their lawns and maybe Sam would be there, sleeping it off in the passenger seat, but she doubted it. The sprinklers came on at 3 a.m. and the windows were down.

This is a work of fiction. Flash Fiction Friday is a weekly writing prompt exercise led by Elisha Bartels. She posts them on Fridays to her blog and social media and writers use the trigger words to write a short piece of fiction. They post to their space and share with Elisha, tagging others in the group where possible. Feel free to join in!