Emerald Eyes

You place your hand on the cold medal of the door handle and pull. Instantly, the strong odor of stale cigarettes and multiple cases of vomit fill your lungs. You feel your stomach move and turn. You feel the muscles tense. And you feel like you're going to be joining the others who have disposed their waste of the concrete floor.

You've had this feeling of nausea for almost a month. You've been getting out of breath faster with every movement. You've had an unusual craving for fish and chocolate in the same sitting. Headaches have been a common thing in your everyday agenda, and aspirin doesn't ease the pain anymore. They're intense pains in your temples, and the only thing that helps is sleep, and lots of it.

Continuing to hold yourself together in this massive pit of vomit, you search for him. The music playing in the background is one volume too loud. You can feel the vibrations from the bass through your body. It isn't the same as though you were at a show, it was making your stomach feel more and more weak. You were going to give in to it's calling soon.

You need to find him. Fast.

You look at the floor while you walk, so you don't ruin your shoes. Bottles of unknown alcohol trace your pathway. Stale dry gum dropped on the floor lay basically anywhere you step, but it never leaves the spot it is at. You're disgusted by the state of the bar, but you're not surprised.

You're stomach is telling you to either find a bathroom, or get out of this place. Fast.

You ignore your stomach's request and keep going. You hear the slurred speech of drunken bystanders on the sides of the wooden bar side. You ignore their whistles. All you're worried about is finding him, in one piece.

Then you see him.

He's in a corner booth. A light hanging over him gives you just enough light to see his shaggy black hair. His head in in between the crooks of his elbows on the table. There are multiple bottles around him. Even though you've lost your faith years ago, you pray to God that he just passed out from drinking too much.

You walk over to the booth and sit down on the cracked cheap leather. You feel your legs sticking to the seat, making you uncomfortable. You place your hand on his arm. You feel as it jerks back and watch as he head shoots up. His bloodshot eyes have heavy bags under them. You see no remains of the usual charcoal trimmed eyes, they're just bare. He has a blank stare in those eyes, like he isn't even conscience.

His frowned mouth gives a faint "Hello".

You don't even know what to say to him. All you can think to say is to ask why he is here.

He smirks, "I'm surprised anyone found me here. But, I knew you'd be the only person, if anyone, that would find me here."

He avoided the question, so you asked again.

He sighed, and took another sip out of a dark glass bottle. "To get away from it all. I didn't want to go home and see Adrienne's worried face. But, of course, I went home. And I got that look. The look of goddamn disappointment. Like I haven't seen that fucking look from her before."

He takes another sip, "I couldn't take seeing her, so I went down to the studio. And what the fuck does she do? She follows, bitching at me to tell her what happened that made me so late. I just locked myself in that room, wanting to be left the fuck alone." He chuckled to himself, making a sentence out of a line to one of his songs.

He continues, "So, after about an hour of banging on the fucking door, she finally gave up. I finally had some goddamn peace and quiet to think. And the only way I can gather my thoughts together is to write," he hiccuped from intoxication. "So I wrote you that sappy ass letter, and Adrienne that half ass one. And then I left and came here. That's it basically."

As you try and take in everything he has said, your head feels lighter and lighter. You press your index fingers onto your temples and move them in a circular motion. When that doesn't ease the pain, you need to put your head down. You can't help it.

You feel a hand on your arm. You hear his gentle voice, "Roxy, are you okay?"

You can't even answer. The smell of cleanser and vomit fill your nostrils. You're going to vomit. It isn't a fake it fast kind of situation any more. This isn't a you need find him fast, or a get out of here fast. It's a you need to find a bathroom. Fast.

As though he was reading your mind, he jumped up from his seat and ran to the bar counter. As fast as he went over there, he was back with a bucket in his hand. You grabbed it quickly from him and hold it up to your head. As your there, head in an old bucket with your whole day's meal comes back up, you feel your hair being picked up and taken out of your face. You pick your head up and turn around. With tears in your hazel eyes from throwing up, you see his emerald ones staring right back at you.

The passion was still in you eyes.

"You know, even when you're here throwing your fucking guts up, you're still beautiful."

You laugh slightly. But the movement of it triggered your stomach again. You were getting tired of throwing up almost everyday now for the past month. If this is a cold, it's a fucking long cold that won't leave your system.

You tell him in between your face in that bucket that he needs to go home, that Adrienne is worried about him.

He sighs, "She's always fucking worried about me! I'm so tired of it!"

You protest and say that she loves him. You tell him he needs to get home, despite the fact he doesn't want to. Before he opens his mouth for a comeback, you tell him if he isn't going to do it because he wants to, do it for you.

He closes his mouth. Then says, "I'll go. But only for you."

Your heart stops. It skipped a beat, you felt it. You're getting that feeling again. The one where your knees go weak and your heart melt at every word he speaks. You feel butterflies in your stomach.

It isn't butterflies, it's the rest of your meal coming up. You hear him laugh as he holds your hair.

"Come on Rox, we have to get you home to your bed. You need rest, ginger ale, crackers, and a good Lifetime movie." He smiles at you. You smile back.

You stands up, takes your hand and lifts you out of the seat. He grabs the soiled bucket in the other hand and you both walk out of the bar. You have to drive the both of you home, though, since he had too much to drink.

As you are driving down the boulevard, sickness sweeping yourself, you hear him whisper the words into your ear:

"I love you, Roxana."