Sitting there, on her stool, watching them all play pool, the people she'd gone to high school with, who never acknowledged her then, but couldn't seem to get enough of her now, she wondered, "Am I really brave enough to do this?"No money had yet exchanged hands. She could cancel the flight, go home, start looking up universities that would accept late M.A. applications…It would be easy. Real simple.
She sips her drink, a Bloody Mary. She'd always preferred her alcohol to be red. It was nicer that way, a childish little quirk that she'd decided never to justify. Just because. She sips again and her lips burn fire, the sides of her mouth stain crimson. She wonders if a kiss would leave a mark and grins widely, that trademark Chesire cat/Joker grin that shows off her gums, oh-so maniacally.
"You've got a pretty smile," he says, pinching her again, irritating to no end. "You should smile more often. Nice teeth." She looks up from her drink, knows that she could say something coy, something clever like, "They bite real well," and smile, but instead, she mutters, "Thanks. I'll try."
She pats him on the head, like a puppy, and goes up to the bar to order another: a double, lots of Tabasco, please. She wonders if she will, in fact, try—to smile that is. Will there be things to smile at in Korea--Mildly amusing anecdotes; university stories; reminiscing on times gone by; drooly boys with sloppy red tongues to humor? She assumes there will be, but she worries. Why go to the other side of the world for the same old thing if I already have it? Is that all there is? She waits for the bartender to put the celery stalk in her drink before she makes her way up to the pool table.
The boy has fallen asleep—passed out, actually—his beer mug drained. She sits down anyway and decides she might as well relish the silence, the thoughtful, intelligent conversation (though it be only in her own mind) for once, just for a change. She knows it will be difficult; that she'll be isolated, alone. Nothing new there. But, she imagines that it will be a chance to reinvent herself, to throw away the bits she despises: the odious thoughts that drive her to insomnia and depression that make her want to die. I can whittle myself down, she thinks, smooth out the lumps, until I'm a perfect little clothes-pin person.
She knows that in Korea, it will be different, new, exciting. No more walking into a bar, knowing exactly who will be there, what music will be playing on the jukebox, the questions people will ask her, the answers she knows she'll say. No more knowing how they'll laugh; no more watching as they move on to some other victim of pedestrian-deja-vu land. No. No more of that. No more of even understanding the words people say, though. No more knowing, really; no more mental and verbal regurgitation.
The girl knows that for her, Korea is an escape; that some realize it and others don't. There is always something to run from and for the girl, the unknown has a certain charm, a mystique, sort of like watching an eyelid close slowly, as it sweeps away vision with soft, long eyelashes that graze skin softly.
The girl sighs. She finishes her drink and stands up. A sharp pain runs through her stomach. Fuck, that hurts, she thinks. She's consumed a lot today (even if they were just Bloody Maries), and that's unusual. Her stomach can't handle very much. This depresses her and she lights a cigarette. She is worried. There are always 'What ifs' to consider. What will happen to me if I die in Korea, she wonders, pulling the smoke into her lungs, deep, like one holding on tight, 'for dear life,' they say. Will anyone know or care? Maybe not. She tells herself to make an effort to be okay. A mental note: 'OK.'
Last night, her mother had told the girl that she was worried, really worried, that she needed to start taking better care of herself, that she should keep taking the pills, "'cause they'll kick in soon enough and you'll feel great," Great. Only another month or so of dizziness and nausea, heart burn and headaches not to mention an overall mental stickiness, like there's gum stuck on my frontal lobe, she thinks. Fucking fantastic.
She stands up and puts out her cigarette, a crooked, shriveled Du Maurier King Size. The boy wakes up and confusedly looks at her, his face all creased from the sleeves of his corduroy jacket. "What? You're leaving?" "Well," she says, "My flight's the morning after next. Going to Montreal tomorrow. Getting up early." She lets him hug her goodbye, and leaving, she waves to people she doesn't really like very much.
Outside, she breathes the air, clear from cigarette smoke and the stench of beer. Inside, the sounds are the same: raucous laughter; cue-balls clacking together; shrieking girls. Fun times. Same old shit.
And she thinks, so this is it. Walking slowly, she can't help herself from smiling, a quiet, happy little twitch of her mouth, not very jester-like at all.
Yeah, she realizes, this is it.
