Chris is a “glass-half-full” kind of guy. This isn’t to emphasize a particular trait of optimism he possesses, but rather something he lacks, the capacity to set the hard liquor down and drink some water instead. Now, don’t get me wrong, an unending supply of Grey Goose adds an air of lightness to every summer gathering; roasting marshmallows transforms into an uninhibited telling of high school rebellion, playing Euker becomes an exciting display of cheers and raining cards. With Chris, (and his accompanying glass), the laughter is louder, the jokes are raunchier, the night always longer.
And the only competition for his round-the-clock shots and shaken cocktails is his girlfriend, Sarah. Lips pursed, sun-streaked hair swaying, she joins the frequent calls for drinks with a soft, slightly slurred, “yes.” But as shadows begin to play beneath the glow of flickering candles, it’s Chris whose voice vibrates like coins on a metal track, rising and falling unsteadily within the room’s narrow walls. Wrists flexing, he reaches down to grip the bar counter edge, eyes matching the tint of his faded drink. Nevertheless, his fingers seem to find strength against the rim of Sarah’s glass, tipping it towards her glossy lips, offering more and more shots until “yes” becomes the unheard answer to an unasked question. He laughs as she grimaces at the taste, joking about how the drunker she is, the “luckier” he gets.
Ever since the days of middle school, sexual objectification emerged with the punctuality of an unwanted guest. It trembled through the laughter of male classmates, resided in the stained corners of downtown streets, and sought protection under the unforgiving pretense of “compliments.” Despite our initial confusion at the appearance of this unprecedented phenomenon, my friends and I possessed a shared expectation, that while we came to expect the jeers from shameless strangers, this treatment would never poison the actions those we respected. Then came Chris, tailored jacket draped across the back of his chair, tan arms glowing against the light of his silver Rolex, a young man gaining steady success through the ranks of his financial business. He was handsome, intelligent and ambitious, a living representation of guys my peers dreamed of one-day meeting.
Yet, as my friend and I discussed last night's events over bitter coffee and burnt toast, all I could think of was the way his fingers spread across the edges of Sarah’s drink, one hand smacking her butt, the other pressing, and tipping until the liquid disappeared down her throat. My voice shook slightly as I spoke, an unconstrained disgust seeping through my recount.
“Well I don’t want to make generalizations,” Shannon replied, reaching over to top off her nearly brimming mug, “I mean, yes, that’s inappropriate…but what does she expect? Walking around with fake boobs, Botox, always in a bikini, always acting that way.” She placed her dish in the sink and turned to me, “the reason Sarah did those things was to get that sort of attention. I refuse to only accuse men.”
Thinking about that night, I still cringe at the memory of Chris’s fingers pressing and tipping, imagining how he became “luckier” with each drop that passed his girlfriend’s lips. But as I stared at my friend from across the kitchen counter, my mouth felt dry against the rough edges of her words. I was shocked at how suddenly the insidious workings of shame could quiet the fires of my fury and drown them in showers of redirected blame. But right as I opened my mouth to discuss a new topic, dad’s trip, thanksgiving, anything that would stop the shivers from rolling down my spine, Shannon broke the silence with the musicality of glass under gravel;
“Well, at least you’ll never have to undergo surgery to get what you want, honey,” she winked as she pointed towards my chest, “you were born blessed.”
I smiled softly, hands grazing the indents of my glass, looking down to notice the intertwining hues of cream and coffee as she laughed and told me how “lucky” I was.
