The other people in the bar are a blur. I’ve lost count on how many shots I’ve had; it has definitely been a few. The bartender keeps giving me a concerned look every time I ask for another, but he never stops pouring. I often pretend my life is a movie and I pick a song that would fit that moment. I’m having trouble deciding what song fits this exact moment when a guy asks if I want to dance, but before I can answer someone answers for me.
“No man, she doesn’t want to dance,” says the bartender whose name I don’t even know. Not sure why he is answering for me.
The guy looks back at me and asks again, “Do you want to dance, sweetheart, or does that asshole answer for you?” Again, I don’t get to answer, but not because of mystery bartender. No, this time it’s because I’m throwing up. All over the guy’s shoes.
He yells at me, “What the hell bitch?”
As he turns to walk away bartender guy yells after him, “I told you she didn’t want to dance man!” He laughs to himself and passes a damp napkin to me. I nod a thank you and try not to think about the vomit on the floor next to me. Once the room stops spinning so much I gather myself and get up to leave.
“Wait a second there, I’ll give you a ride home.”
I turn to look at the bartender, “Are you crazy? I don’t even know you!” He just starts laughing. I don’t know this guy from Adam; he is not taking me home. For all I know he could be a serial rapist.
“You’ve been coming in here for the past few months and every time I’m the guy who serves you.”
“That doesn’t mean I should trust you to get me home safely.”
“Well, you’re in no state to trust anyone else.”
I think it over for a second and decide to just go with it; not like I could truly get any worse. He walks to the end of the bar to speak with the other bartender. The guy nods to him and he joins me on the other side of the bar. He grabs my elbow lightly enough to guide me out of the bar. We exit and head towards the parking lot.
“This is me.” He points to a bright electric green motorcycle. I’ve always wanted to ride one of these, but never had the courage to actually do it. He hands me a black helmet; I watch him get on the bike first.
“I don’t even know your name.”
“My name’s Josh.”
“Okay… Mine’s Callie.”
“Well, Callie, are you ready?” From the smirk on his face I’m guessing he thinks I’m afraid to get on. He is very mistaken if that’s the case. I shove the helmet on and swing my leg over the bike. I wrap my arms around his torso and gasp. I hope he wasn’t able to hear that, but the soft chuckle tells me he does. Even through his shirt I can tell he is very well built. The lyrics to Talking Body by Tove Lo pops into my head and I laugh.
