Pop

A bulbous cherry glittered underneath a concoction of vodka and soda. I circled the mouth of the glass, the clear well illuminating the little suns above. The group occupied a large ubiquitous corner where three tables stood shoulder-to-shoulder, cramped between walls of red bricks and mirrors.

There have been changes at work and I became part of a new team. Well, it wasn’t a new team. They were my old team—until I was uprooted and given to a new one. Tonight, we were to get drunk and reacquainted. I missed drinking with them. I remembered them being fun. 

He arrived after a few rounds, when everyone had settled in. He headed straight for the only vacant seat—beside mine. I have neither seen him in months nor have we talked in almost a year. I instinctively called out without meeting his gaze.

“Hey,” I sounded lame.

“Kamusta?!” A punch hit my shoulder. 

“That hurts!” 

He gave no response, crammed his body into the space, and looked away. I massaged my shoulder, pressed the round bend that just recently greeted his knuckles. He hasn't changed. He was still careless. 

“You should go to my shoot.”

He told one of our friends. He tilted and our shoulders met, became twins. I felt his weight, the familiarity of his baggages—ours—dragging like three layers of coats in stingy weather. How many times have we been like this? In situations we never wished for but savoured nonetheless? And how many times have I eavesdropped, waiting for an apology that, like our dreams, got lost along the way? My pride always sat between us. Unlike him, I was not careless.

He lit a cigarette. The paper burned. My elixir sparkled and I gulped it down in one go. The thing with familiarity is that at a certain point, its effects cease to matter.

“I just want to produce something.” He was still at it.

I leaned on the table and the heaviness lift itself like the fog, leaving only the slightest trace of dew. I left cherry between the rocks and walked away. - 3/4/2016