Whiskey Breath

It was unseasonably hot for October, and the humidity in the air had forced her hair into a frizzy frenzy. She pulled it back with a black elastic that was fraying and would only survive one or two more ponytails. When her hair was off her shoulders, she felt a momentary coolness overcome her neck and embraced the moment of relief from the heat. 

She’d finished up her class earlier than she had hoped and realized it wasn’t even 9 o’clock, and she would have to wait a bit longer than anticipated. No worry, she was tired anyway from one of her more argumentative students that insisted her pirouettes were flawless despite them being an abhorrent insult to proper dance. How many times can you correct someone that doesn’t see any mistake? Eight. The answer was eight, and it had depleted her mentally for the evening. A solitary drink might be just what she needed to reset. 

She pulled open the weighted metal door that looked like the entrance to a walk-in freezer rather than a bar. Nothing about the grey warehouse building clued any passerby into the existence of a bar behind the cold, heavy door. You had to be in the know to go. Eleanor was very much in the know. 

The soft blue light illuminated her bare skin as she flung herself into the perfectly cool place, saving her from the sticky night outside. The blue glow came from the bar top that was made of frosted glass with LED lights just underneath, giving the appearance of a glowing countertop. Behind the bar, where all the glasses hung upside down, more blue lights shone down, illuminating the different shaped glassware to match the bar. The long, narrow room glowed how a child might imagine the inside of an igloo or a snow globe. 

The blue lights doubled the cooling relief that Eleanor felt when she walked in. And she was already forgetting about Amy’s insistence on her improper pirouettes. She walked towards the middle of the bar where no one was sitting and pulled out one of the clear glass stools. Everything about this bar was sleek and simple, probably so one could focus on how blue it was. The bar was appropriately, or lazily, named “Sky”. 

Eleanor slid onto the barstool and felt the sequins on the outside of her skirt scratch at her bare legs. She usually didn’t wear such showy outfits to class, but it was Monday, and she had been trying to give herself a surge of enthusiasm for the day, but it had not worked. Her favorite flowing shirt had also not done much good, but now the bar light made the white top appear blue and shimmery like the bottom of a chlorine pool. 

She turned around on her stool and gently dropped her canvas bag containing her ballet shoes onto the floor behind her but slightly pushed under her chair. An egregious cackle startled her, and she turned her head to notice a group of gentlemen, if we want to call them that, slugging whiskey and slapping each other on the back in riotous laughter. They all wore suits with loosened ties and undone shirt collars: a hoard of Wall Street imbeciles rewarding themselves for moving money around all day long. 

Rolling her eyes, she swung back to face the bar and get a drink; her reward for dealing with pirouettes and arabesques all evening long. Her lips turned upwards in a sweet, solemn smile, and she flitted her hand in the air for a moment until the bartender noticed her. He was showing an older couple their Cabernet options and he sent Eleanor a quick wink to let her know he’d be right over. She replied with an understanding smile and pulled her book out from under her ballet slippers to try and pass the time before she could go home. 

At the moment, meaning for the past forty days, Eleanor was reading Virginia Woolf’s Orlando. As much as she loved to soak up a good book, she constantly found herself distracted and unable to commit real time to finish her novels. Currently, the character of Orlando has just married a Spanish dancer but has fallen into some sort of strange coma. Eleanor wonders if he will wake up, but she has only made it halfway through the book, so she calms herself that he has to awaken for the story to be this long. 

As she reads page by page, lifting an eye to see when the bartender would tend to her bar needs, Orlando’s trance begins to lift, but he doesn’t wake up quite the same. Eleanor’s brow furrows as she reads the description of Orlando's breasts, which have appeared, and his male member that has disappeared. Eleanor begins to lose herself in the book, forgetting altogether about her lack of alcohol and company. 

“Hey, there.” A deep, animated voice nearly made her throw the book up in the air in surprise. She put her hand to her chest to calm her racing heart and turned around to see one of the Wall Street imbeciles standing directly behind her. He had an eyebrow raised and a whiskey glass in one of his hands. His other arm was oddly cocked as if he was asking her to waltz. He stood there looking like a Coca-Cola ad from the 50s, and she couldn’t help but curl her lip subtly in revulsion. 

“Hi…” She replied, looking him up and down in confusion. 

“You look awful lonely over here, sweetie. Why don’t I join you for a drink? Can I buy you a Cosmo or something? You look thirsty.” He leaned up against the bar inches away from her and she instinctively shifted to the left-most side of her glass stool away from him. 

“No, thank you” Eleanor replied calmly and confidently. She was so not in the mood for this and was dying to know how and why the young boy Orlando was all of a sudden a lady. 

“Oh come on, now. One drink, eh? You’re not doing anything else, honey.” He was leaning closer to her now, and the whiskey smell was excessive. She felt she no longer needed a drink as his sheer proximity had raised her BAC. 

“I said, no, but thank you.” Eleanor was growing agitated and noticed his pack of friends at the front of the bar were all watching his drunken attempts on her. 

“Why not?” His tone changed, and he became more whiny and aggressive.

She closed her book and turned to face him, raising her hand to prevent him from inching any closer. “I said no. I am reading. I am not interested. I don’t find you attractive. You are bothering me. I am waiting for someone.”

“OH! I didn’t realize you were waiting for someone, hun,” this intoxicated stranger’s use of pet names on her was feeding a fire of rage, “I didn’t realize, my bad.” He gave her a nauseating wink and cockily swung around and swaggered back to his friends, spilling a bit of whiskey as he walked. 

Eleanor’s face was red with fury as this man retreated from her. The soft, blue glow of the bar top turned her face to a purplish color, and she was ready to scream at his back and let him know what a sniveling gremlin he was to her, but the intrigue of Orlando’s situation took priority. 

She took a deep sigh, one of the sighs her yoga teacher was always commanding them to take, and returned her gaze to the words of Virginia Woolf. As Orlando examined her new body and appearance, the bartender swooped in front of Eleanor, delivering a well-timed, much-needed Negroni. She let out another deep, yoga sigh and met his eyes with a look of pure gratitude. 

“How’s your day going?” The bartender asked her in a sweet, low voice that felt how the Negroni tasted: soothing. 

“Not great, got worse, getting better.” She smiled and sipped her Negroni leaning on the bar top in contentment. 

“Glad it’s getting better. Do you—“ He stopped mid-sentence as he realized the older couple was flagging him down and did not look pleased with their choice of wine. He gave them a wave back, gave Eleanor a look of dread, and headed to the other end of the bar. 

She had enjoyed his company for the moment but was genuinely entranced by Orlando’s sex change and just wanted to continue reading about it. Finally, she had the peace to read it; excluding the imbeciles’ boisterous cackling and the soft, ambient music playing in the bar. 

Orlando has begun an affair with a ship captain, now, as a woman. Eleanor thinks to herself that Orlando is truly experiencing something profoundly unique as no one has ever changed sexes practically overnight, you know, non-surgically. She paused at the end of her chapter when Orlando is whisked away by a former love interest, and Eleanor feels a moment of glee for her beloved character. She places the book down on the countertop and glances at her phone: 10:30. The longest she’s read without stopping in a while, she was impressed with herself.

She clinked the ice cubes in her empty glass, and before she could lift her head to locate the bartender he was sliding another Negroni in front of her. She let out a little chuckle, and he winked at her. She was about to thank him when the whiny voice appeared behind her again.

“Hey, there!” Her stomach sank in annoyance, and she swiveled around to face him with her head lowered, eyes squinted.

“What?” She shot a single syllable back.

“So, are you still waiting? Have you been stood up? Let me get your next drink.”

“No. To all of the above, please leave me alone.”

“Oh come on, babe,” her muscles tightened with yet another pet name out of his mouth, “I’m sorry you got stood up, let me make it up to you.”

“She’s all set.” The bartender interjected, but the drunken asshole told him to mind his own business and that his business was to fetch him another whiskey, neat. The bartender’s hand curled into a fist, and his expression hardened. He opened his mouth to say something, but Eleanor shot him a look and subtly lifted and lowered her hand as if to tell him she had it under control. The bartender turned and walked away to get the asshole another whiskey.

“I am not interested in having a drink, or a bite, or anything with you. Please, just leave me alone.”

“Listen, honey, whoever you are waiting for clearly isn’t showing up. So why don’t you give me a chance over that asshole?” He was swaying back and forth, entering her personal space, leaving her personal space, and she feared he would topple over onto her.

“Please. Fuck off.” She said with her back turned to him, reopening her book. He gave her a frown like a child that had been told he couldn’t open his presents before Christmas and stormed away before his whiskey arrived. 

The bartender returned to Eleanor with the asshole’s whiskey. “Do you want me to say something to them?” He leaned towards her, and his round face lit up like a full moon over the blue bar top.

“Ugh,” Eleanor rolled her head to glance at the group of men and then rolled her head back to the bartender. “No, no. He’s over there now. It’s fine. Hopefully, that’s the last time. But don’t waste your breath. Plus, what? You don’t think I can take care of myself?” She gave him a mischievous smile, and he returned it, then he went to deliver the forgotten whiskey. 

She returned her attention to Orlando’s journey, but as she tried to absorb Woolf’s sentences she found herself wondering how she would feel if one day awoke to her own morning wood and a flat chest. Would she be different as a man? Of course, she would, but in what way? She realized she had spaced out for four whole paragraphs and grew mildly frustrated with herself. She placed the book down for a moment and stared into her Negroni, thinking that if she were a man, she would never interrupt a woman reading at a bar. And if she was a man, when a woman said no, there wouldn’t be any more questions. She would accept the no and move on, unlike some assholes.

Looking over her shoulder at the men still slapping one another on the backs for what she was sure were offensive jokes, she seethed with frustration at their arrogance. It was just past 11:30, and the bar would be closing soon. She thought she better squeeze in some more reading rather than sit there resenting a group of strangers. But as she read, his pompous advances still filled her with rage, probably since she had finished her second Negroni and was getting a bit tipsy. She wiggled her fingers in the air to ask for another, and the bartender obliged affectionately. 

Finally, Eleanor was able to sink back into Virginia Woolf’s fictional world. Orlando wrestled with her new body and a new place in society as the ice cubes melted in the Negroni. Orlando had come to realize that she did not feel all that different in her new body, but she was certainly treated rather differently; she was condescended to, ordered about, and belittled. Eleanor found humor in how honest this was and thought that if she became a man she would never talk down to a woman. Had Orlando lost significant control over her life in this sex change? Or had she gained newfound power to wield? 

“Hey there, last call. One more?” The bartender interrupted her thoughts.

“Oh, uhhhh. No, no that’s okay. I’m good. It’s Monday.” They both let out a chuckle and exchanged a knowing glance. He began to walk down the bar towards the Wall Street imbeciles to offer them their last call. “Wait!” The word slipped from Eleanor’s mouth, and she stretched out her hand towards him dramatically; something to be seen in a tragic romantic drama. 

He turned back to her with a smile.“Yessss…..?” He asked expectantly. She lowered her head and held up her index fingering mouthing the words ‘one more’ to him. He nodded his head obediently, chuckled, and fetched her another.

Once the glass was placed in front of her she returned to the book to fill the last ten minutes until the bar closed. She felt Monday fading away and began to feel hopeful about Tuesday. Amy wasn’t in her Tuesday class, so she wouldn’t have to see those dreadful pirouettes. And then she read a line that brought all her stress and annoyance rushing back, flooding her face.

The line read:

Women are but children of a larger growth…. A man of sense only trifles with them, plays with them, humors, and flatters them.

She knew they were truly Virginia Woolf’s words, and they were full of purpose in this context, but she couldn’t help feeling irate. Who the Hell does this Lord Chesterfield think he is? It was most likely due to the Negronis coursing through her veins, regardless she felt like kicking a car tire or some other cliche way to show how displeased she was. 

Closing the book, she pressed the home button on her phone to reveal it was 11:58. Perfect timing since she didn’t feel like reading anything else that would upset her further. She took the final sip of her final Negroni and slid off her stool. She landed on her feet uneasily and realized she was sufficiently drunk and wobbled for a moment. She collected her balance and reached down to grab her canvas bag, shoving the book inside with contempt. She remembered how gross and sticky it was outside and felt the immense urge to get home to her air conditioning as soon as possible.

As she walked towards the exit, she saw only three Wall Street assholes remained, including Mr. Whiskey, who eyed her as she walked. She stopped when she reached the door and leaned her back against the wall. The Wall Street guys were paying their tab and getting ready to leave as they were the last patrons in the bar. Their words slurred as they commended one another on what a legendary night this had been and what good guys they all were. They neared Eleanor as they made their way to the exit and began to file out the door. But Mr. Whiskey stopped, putting his hand at the top of the doorway.

“Date never showed?” He asked, whiskey stench rolling out of his mouth into her face. She rolled her eyes, crossed her arms, and took a dramatic side-step away from him. Not getting the hint, he slid along with her and leaned against the wall on his shoulder. “Oh, come on. What is your problem? I’m being friendly.” He let out a tiny burp, inches from her face, and she cringed in disgust. 

“El, are you ready to go? I’m exhausted. Only one episode of X-files tonight?” The bartender was walking out from behind the bar with his shirt unbuttoned, keys in hand. Eleanor saw his look of annoyance when he saw Mr. Whiskey bothering her again, a subtle head shake and some muttered swear words. She also saw him prepare to come put this asshole in his place, which for some reason she didn’t want. She wanted the guy to fuck off because she said fuck off, not because the manly bartender told him to get the fuck away from his girlfriend.

“Wow, she’s with you?” The asshole hollered towards the bartender, “If I had known that, I wouldn’t have bothered you.” She felt her face flush red with anger at this piece of vermin slurring his words in front of her. “But you didn’t have to be such a bitch.”

It must have been a combination of the Negronis and Lord Chesterfield’s attitude and mostly this guy’s insane persistence all night, but Eleanor had had enough, and before the neurons in her brain and body could communicate, her fist was flying at this motherfucker’s face. Her knuckles landed squarely on his snub-nose, knocking him backward. He stumbled a few steps and then finally fell onto his back hard. Eleanor felt like the blue bar was glowing red now and stood over her former harasser and now victim, waiting for some sort of rebuttal. He was discombobulated and had his hand over his nose where her fist had landed. A stream of blood began to run through his fingers, and he began to spin around angrily in confusion, trying to locate his assailant whom he seemed to have forgotten. 

Eleanor took two steps towards him with her fist still clenched in the air. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” She demanded in a voice fit for a prison warden. The anger faded from his face, but the confusion remained, along with a new expression, perhaps fear. He scrambled to his feet, still covering his nose as more blood ran down his crisp, white shirt. He paused at the door to give the bartender a puzzled look, looked at Eleanor again, this time, she was certain it was fear in his face, and she lapped it up joyously. He pushed his way out the door, hopefully never to be seen again. 

Eleanor looked at the bartender, her lovely boyfriend, who was softly chuckling with a giant grin on his face. Eleanor met his gaze and gave a shrug lifting her hands to her shoulders. 

He walked over to her and kissed her on the forehead. She felt her blood pressure go down and took a yoga sigh to calm herself, hands shaking, “Does your hand hurt?” he gently asked as he put his arm around her. She looked down at her hand that was red and starting to bruise and nodded her head. 

Suddenly tears began falling from her eyes, and she broke out into a soft sob, to which he replied, “I know, rough Monday. Let’s go home.” She continued nodding and leaned her head on his shoulder as they pushed the heavy door open and stepped out of the bar.