Week Fifty-Two

Week one: "One scotch on the rocks, please." "Sure," he accepted and walked to the far end of the bar. "Long day?" the sexy stranger sitting two seats away asked. "You could say that again." "What are ya drinkin'?" Damn he was handsome, "Scotch on the rocks, you?" He smirked, "Scotch on the rocks... with a twist." I smiled, "Guess we're soul mates or some shit then, right?" He laughed, nodded once, and sipped his drink from the crystal glass. "So what really brings you here,...?" "Belle," I answer, "Belle, like from Beauty and the Beast?" "Yes, actually. And I'm here because... I'm not sure, just having a rough week I guess." He nods again, and sips his drink once more. "I'll drink to that," he responds. "I'm George, by the way." The bartender places my scotch with ice in front of me on a white napkin. There's a wet circle around the bottom of the glass on the paper when I pick it up. "Wanna get out of here, George?" He looks startled, "Don't you want to finish your drink?" "Don't worry," I assure him, "There's plenty of this at my house."

Week two: "Can I have another scotch on the rocks, please?" "Sure," she answers. "Wait, make that a scotch on the rocks with a twist, please." She nods and walks away and I sit alone at the bar. "Business woman, huh?" I hear two or three seats away. "What's it to ya?" I answer with a bit of sass in my voice. "Well, all I wanted to point out was how good you look in that pencil skirt, babe." I glare over at the rugged voice coming at me, seeing a rugged face to match. A young man with lots of scratchy facial hair is staring towards me, and he is almost as good looking as the last man to hit on me at this exact spot. "Well, all I want to point out is how well you sport that facial hair." His face lights up with a look somewhere between confidence and cockiness. "I'm Doug." I look away from him and towards the bartender, attempting to be sexy, "I'm Belle. You wanna be the beast?" He laughs, "Exactly how many drinks have you had so far, sweetheart?" "Three," I respond. My fourth drink arrives and I begin to gulp it down. "Rough day?" He asks, "Rough week," I answer. Finish the drink. And grab his arm.

Week four: "Can I have the lobster, a side of mashed potatoes, and another martini please." I hand the waitress the menu and sip on my existing martini. "I'll have the steak, side of vegetables, and a Corona please." the waitress finishes jotting down our orders and walks away. "So what do you like?" he asks with his girly voice. "To have fun," I say in a monotonous voice. "And are you right now?" he says and sips his beer, never taking his eyes off me. Letting them burn right through my skin. "Sure," I say. He laughs really loud for some reason, which almost sends me right out of the restaurant, but then I realize I'm out of alcohol. "God, where's my martini," I whisper. "Well aren't you antsy?" I didn't think he could hear me, but I guess he could. "I've had a rough week, sorry," I add. "Well... I can help you fix that..." he whispers as he rubs his leg against mine, and I've had enough. "Ew, no thank you. I'll make sure to never accept my sister's blind date references again. Thanks for the drink. Goodnight." I walk out of the restaurant into the cold winter air, "I need a drink," I say to myself.

Week eight: "Will that be all ma'am?" "Yes," I reply as I take out my credit card. "That will be $92.99" Oof, I've been spending money like no other lately, but I definitely need this. I thank the woman and walk out of the Food Town Supermarket. As I'm getting into my car, a man grabs the door. "George?" He smiles and the air releasing from his mouth creates a cloud of smoke-like substance into the bitter, cold air. "It's good to see you, Belle, how are you?" "I'm... good. And you?" I can't believe it. I haven't seen him in months. Still looks great. "I'm great, been wanting to call you for a while. Wanna go somewhere?" "I was actually going to go home for a few drinks, wanna join?" He looks into the passenger seat and sees the three bags of drinks I have bought. "Rough week again?" I smile. "Yes actually, joining or not?" He hesitates, then responds. "Sure," he says, and gets into the car.

Week sixteen: "Want another drink, hun?" George sighs, "No," he says, "I already had two." I giggle, "And you think that's a lot?" George puts his fork down. With some chicken still in his mouth, he asks, "Belle, can you tell me what's so wrong with your life?" I look up from my plate, "What do you mean?" He gets up from the table and comes and kneels in front of me. "You just seem to be very sad. You go to work very early, come home very late, and spend the rest of the night drinking." I shoot him a look, letting him know I've been offended, "I'm not trying to start a fight, babe, I'm just being honest. Why did we sleep together the first night? You were drinking and wanted a release from the pain. And how many other times did you go back to that bar afterwards? And how many other guys did you sleep with? And how many more drinks did you have the next day than the day before? You're only 28 sweetie, your life is all work and no play. Why don't you try to relax and enjoy life without drinking for once?" I try to soak in everything he is saying. But I can't. I feel like a grimy sponge that has been used for too long and just isn't effective anymore. "If you're suggesting that I have alcoholic tendencies, you're wrong. I just like wine. And I like the taste of it after a long day." He stands up again and stares at me from above, "Okay, sweetie, well there is another thing you can enjoy after a long day." He winks at me and walks into the bedroom. I sigh, take the last sip of wine from my glass, and follow him.

Week thirty-two: "One more drink, miss?" "Yes, please," I answer and look at the man who is asking, "can I have a side of you, too?" He smiles and walks away to retrieve my gin. "Belle, are you sure you're okay? I mean, George just left today." I smirk, "I'm fine, Lea, I just need a drink." "You've already had four." I'm getting angry now, "So what? I can't enjoy the sweet serenity of alcohol after my boyfriend has left me?" She places her glass down, "It would be okay if the reason he left you wasn't because of your drinking..." I slam my glass down on the greasy bar, "You don't know anything about me or my relationship. And if you did, you wouldn't have set me up with that douche-bag guy months ago. So keep to yourself and pay for my drink." She sighs, takes out her purse, scrambles in it and slams a twenty on the bar. "There, don't expect any support from me again." She walks towards the exit of the club and I am left alone yet again. "I'm just having a rough week, Lea, why do you have to be such a bitch!" I yell after her, but it was basically impossible for even me to hear it with the loud house music playing. "Here you are, ma'am." the handsome bartender says as he places my gin on the glossy wooden bar. "It's Belle. Wanna come home with me tonight?" He's caught off guard, but complies regardless. "Why not? I get off at eleven." I glance at my watch which is barely readable. "It's ten thirty, meet me at my house when you're done. My address is 135 Melbrook Ave. Come right in, I'm not getting up to answer the door for you." I walk out of the club with the glass in my hand and my cares left behind.

Week forty-five: "Ma'am, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave." "Why!" I scream, "It's past closing time and you're drunk. We've taken your keys and Ken has offered to take you home." "Who the fuck is Ken and who the fuck are you?" I don't know where I am or what is happening... "Ken is the bartender you... took home one night who works here. You're at Club 51, and it's time for you to leave." "No, fuck you I'll stay until whenever I wa--"

Week fifty-two: "Hello?" "Hey, Belle, how are you?" "I'm sorry, who is this?" "George," I hear on the other end of the receiver. "Hi, George. I'm fine. How are you?" "I'm good," he says, "just checking in." "Um, why, exactly?" He sighs, "I was told you aren't doing so well," he confesses. "From who?" I demand, "Your sister." I begin to grind my teeth, "She doesn't know shit, and it's none of your business anyway. So goodbye." I go to hang up the phone when I hear him pleading on the other end. "Wait! Belle, I know you've had a rough week, but--" I don't want to hear what he has to say, so I proceed to hang up the phone. He doesn't know what he's talking about. He never did. He didn't know what I go through or how much stress I hold. My drinking is plausible. I then realize I am laying in bed with a box of wine and seven dirty glasses by my side when I realized I have been saying, "I'm just having a rough week," for the past fifty-two weeks. "Maybe they were right," I whisper right before I nod off into unconsciousness.