Everyone in the airport bar is drunk. And I want to know why.
I order a glass of Prosecco, which arrives in a Great Gatsby glass, and I have 22 minutes to get to my gate. As I gulp down the cold, gold, shimmering liquid, a man asks me if he can take a picture of the book I’m reading – I’m Glad My Mother Died – and tells me he’s not fond of his mom either and that he sometimes shares these sentiments.
“That was dark,” he says, realizing his bleakness. “Merry Christmas,” he redirects and clinks his plastic cup full of cheap booze against my glass, his crumpling a bit.
That’s an uncomfortable man, I think. This bar is full of uncomfortable people.
The middle-aged woman to my left asks if her sparkling wine can be moved out of her champagne glass and into a stemless wine glass. “I’ve got shaky hands,” she says, apologetically, unnecessarily explaining herself and her needs like a person who must justify their existence.
A girl to my right, barely 21, insists on a Bloody Mary with an insecure authority, annoyed she is asked for her identification, as though she’s been ordering tomato juice and vodka for afternoon flights for decades.
I lock eyes with the man across from me. We’re both silently belting out the lyrics to Mary J. Blige’s Real Love, as it blasts through the sound system, piping through liquor bottles, and punctuating the air. It’s a little too loud, and I like it, and I know he does, too, though he shuts down his apparent pleasure when he sees we’re mimes. He’s wearing an aubergine fedora with a feather in it. I’ll bet it’s as soft and as velvety as his bourbon rocks.
Another woman orders one more drink while two icy and empty glasses sweat brown liquor in front of her. She looks worn, large bags under her eyes, and I wonder what or who she’s lost. Maybe herself.
I finish my Prosecco and order another on the plane, thanks to my seat partner who’s graciously offered me her free drink ticket.
You can perceive much by what and how a person drinks.
I feel sparkly and gold and sharp.
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