I hate bars. I always have. I've never been that kind of gay. Bars like the Red Carpet Lounge made me nervous. Partly, it was the atmosphere: dark, smoky, stinking of cigarettes and constantly buzzing with noise either from the too-loud P.A. or from the conversations of the patrons. Partly, it was the people: a mixture of skinny ultra-hip college kids in flannel shirts and expensive jeans, thirtysomethings in their khakis and Polos, and a few drunk middle-aged couples, all of them boisterously loud.
I had no business in a bar. I thought of the 6-month sobriety chip on the keyring in my pocket, and shuddered. There was a part, a very big part, of me that was screaming for just a drop, just one drop of bourbon, preferably Knob Creek if they had it, Maker's Mark if they didn't. Hell, I'd even suffer through Buffalo Trace at this point if I had to. I shivered despite the warmth of the bar and the heft of my leather jacket. I'm always cold, which is, I guess, part of the package of being me: 140 pounds soaking wet, 5'6, fair-haired and skinned. Two things in this life had ever warmed me up: bourbon and...
I gasped as I saw a flash of auburn hair. I arched in my seat, craning my neck to see...no. Not him. It wasn't HIM. I settled back into my chair, my heart pounding in my chest, suddenly acutely aware of my aloneness. I was a little afraid of the intensity of my feelings, the anxiousness with which I had searched the crowd for HIM.
Two years.
It had been two years since I'd seen his face. Shared history and lots of pain had etched it pretty clearly in my mind, so I wasn't likely to forget it. His eyes...Christ, his eyes. I closed my eyes and I could remember what it felt like for them to look at me, so full of love and trust. They were the color of Christmas trees and the grass outside my home...our home. That's how I chose to remember those eyes, not like the last time they looked at me: hurt, confused, defeated, and God help me, full of tears.
For half a second, I was nearly crushed under the weight of utter self-loathing. I resisted and slipped out from beneath it, mostly unscathed. My psychologist, Dena, would be pleased. I used to disappear for days under that black cloud, mostly when I thought about him. Tommy Templeton, literally the only man I'd ever loved.
So there I sat. In a bar. Not drinking. Picking at the crackling finish on my table.
"Hey darlin'," a buxom and beautiful, if a little thick, waitress interrupted my introspection, passing me a draft beer, "the lady at the end of the bar bought this for you."
I didn't bother looking up at the bar or the waitress. I tried not to look at the beer. The lady who had purchased me the drink was easier to ignore than the drink. I fingered the sobriety chip in my pocket again. I shouldn't even be here, I thought to myself.
"I don't drink," I said, pushing the drink away, "but thanks."
The waitress eyed me skeptically.
