Gray

"I don't get women."

I stared at Rudy, a spoon in my hand holding afternoon, apple-cinnamon oatmeal. We sat in the front seats of my car, me eating my meal out of a tupperware, my feet propped up on the dashboard and Rudy in the driver's seat, his forehead on the steering wheel in what appeared to be utter dumbfoundedness. He had on his serious, pondering face, as though he were about to do some life-changing thinking. I raised an eyebrow at him, looking less serious and far more confused.

"And by that you mean that you don't understand them?" I wondered, taking a bite of oatmeal, "Or you physically cannot attract them to you?"

"The first one," he informed me, "Although...the second one, too. But that wouldn't be true if I didn't look like such a bum."

"You are a bum," I pointed out.

"Fuck you," he snapped, "That's besides the point."

"You're right, I'm sorry," I ate another spoonful of oatmeal, "So. You don't 'get' women."

"I don't," he shook his head, staring at the steering wheel, "They're so goddamned confusing. That's why I'm such a bum, you know. I was ruined by a woman."

"Were you now?" I raised my eyebrows, wondering whether or not I should believe his story. Rudy was constantly making up stories, and then telling me later that he made it up. I knew not to ask him if he was lying ever, because the first (and last) time that I did, he didn't talk to me for an entire two days. I even threatened to evict him from my car, but he still wouldn't talk. Maybe he knew that I never would actually force him back onto the streets.

"Sure was," Rudy nodded in all seriousness, "I fell head over heels for her. And she took my money."

"All of it?"

"Yes; all of it," he nodded again, "To be honest, there never was a lot to begin with. But it's the principle of thing."

"Of course," I agreed, "What I don't understand is how you're confused by women because of this."

"Right, well, she was insane," Rudy explained to me, looking over at me. I stared at him in all seriousness, and said,

"Bitches be crazy."

"I'll drink to that."



To be honest, I never went out drinking by myself. The reason for that was that I didn't enjoy being the one, lonely loser drinking by herself - not even at a single's bar. I hated single's bars, but I never had anyone to drink with, so when I wanted some alcohol in my blood, I turned on a black and white movie, curled up with my dog, and drank beer by the can, crushing each can against my head (or rather, trying and failing and throwing the non-crushed can at the television set) once I was done.

And when I thought about it the next day, I realized how sad and pathetic it was.

So tonight, on a Friday night, when I had no friends to hang out with, no Rudy to swap stories with, no piano lesson to fail at, and no Marilyn Monroe movie marathon to bond with, I was going out to drink.

I looked myself over in the mirror, smoothing out my black lace dress as I did so. I tugged on the tops of my combat boots, making sure that they'd stay on. As I tried admiring myself, I realized that I appeared as though I was going to a funeral. But it was too late to change now. I had made a habit of never changing my clothes more than once a day. And I had already changed twice that day, which was putting me over my limit as it was. So with a deep breath, I left my apartment.

I had too much energy to drive my car around, looking for a bar to hit. By myself. Alone. That is to say, without anyone else. Fuck it.

Waltzing down the street in my funeral get-up, I looked at the lamps lit along my street. It looked like something from a greeting card or a picture hanging in someone's bedroom; if I was a photographer, I would have taken a picture of it right then and there. Seattle was shit, but it could be beautiful as all hell.

As it turned out, there was a restaurant with a bar just down the street from where I lived, and oddly enough, it wasn't one filled to the brim with ruffians and fuck-ups. My street wasn't what one would call high-class and as a result, the stores and restaurants on my street were pieces of shit. This one was not; in fact, it looked quite clean and nice.

It didn't even cross my mind that I had never seen it before. I simply walked through the door, prepared to walk right out.

It was out of my budget range, I could tell from the moment I first stepped in. Everything was red and gold, the employees that were rushing around with trays and plates were prim and proper, even the booth at the front where a young man stood was polished to perfection. I gulped, thinking about my quickly disappearing savings, and began to back up out of the restaurant. The man at the booth caught sight of me, though.

"Miss?" he questioned me, "Miss, where are you going?" I thought that that was really none of his business, but I didn't want to be rude, so I stopped walking.

"Well, to be quite honest, I can't afford to drink here," I informed him. A half-crazed smile lit up his features as he walked toward me and placed a friendly hand on my shoulder.

"Nonsense!" he insisted, "Come, we will get you seated! So it is just you tonight, correct?"

I grimaced, "Yeah. Just me."

"A place at the bar, perhaps?" he asked me.

"Yes," I eyed him warily as he led me toward the bar, "How did you know?"

"My apologies, miss," he smiled a small smile, "You said you can't afford to drink here. I only assumed." I nodded as I was guided toward the bar and took a seat. The man sat next to me, clasping his hands together on the counter and grinning.

"Now," he began, "our barman is very talented and will get you what you like. If you need anything, just let me know."

"Oh, um, thank you," I scratched the back of my head, wondering if all customers got special treatment.

"Of course," he continued smiling, and then looked at the bartender - a thin, attractive young man in his early twenties - with the same smile.

"She is a guest," the man said to the bartender, "Treat her well. Or else." He then signed to the bartender, and having never taken any form of sign language, I couldn't tell if he was actually signing or if he was just giving the bartender a signal. Either way, it was rather unseating. And I didn't like the way he put emphasis on 'guest' and 'or else'.

"We hope you have a good time, Tawny," the first man said to me, grinning, and then he walked away before I could finish my thank you. I wouldn't have finished it anyway, though, because I had noticed something rather peculiar. He had called me by my name.

I suddenly felt feverish, as though I had made a mistake in coming here. I tried to remain calm as the bartender looked at me cautiously.

"Miss, are you alright?" he wondered, "Can I get you anything?"

"Um, just water for now," I told him, my voice almost as quiet as possible. He did as he was told, bringing me a tall glass filled to the top with ice and water. I didn't drink it immediately, though; instead, I stared at the ice cubes floating around, suspended in the water. Watching them calmed me down a little. And then I ordered a bottle of wine.

"Tawny?"

I looked over as I sipped my fifth glass of wine, threatening to panic again if someone I didn't know called me by name. But it wasn't someone I didn't know; it was Mr. H.

"Oh, hello," I greeted him, looking him up and down. He was dressed in a suit, looking sophisticated and well-groomed. And I was nowhere near focused or sober enough to try to impress him. Not only that, but I was dressed for a funeral and afraid of the people who worked here. "You look, um, nice."

"Thank you," he told me guardedly, "What are you doing here?"

"Drinking," I raised my glass, draining what was left of it.

"Wine?" he arched an eyebrow, "You came to a bar to drink wine?"

"Yeah, what of it?" I challenged, watching Mr. H. give me the tiniest smile. The more I looked at him, the more I wanted to drink. And the more I wanted him to stay so that I could look upon his beauty. Or maybe that was just the alcohol talking.

"Jimmy!" I called out to the bartender, for we were on a first-name basis now, "Can I get another glass?"

"Aren't you going to invite me to drink first before you order another glass for me?" Mr. H. wondered. I narrowed my eyes up at him.

"How do you know I don't just like to drink from two glasses?" I asked him, "That's awfully presumptuous of you, you know, assuming that I want you to drink with me."

"Is that your way of asking me?" Mr. H. wanted to know.

"Yeah, that's as good as it's going to get," I nodded, "Sit down." Strangely enough, he did as he was told, as Jimmy poured wine for the both of us. Wine made me feel classy; however, I currently had enough alcohol in my system to where no matter what, nothing could make me appear classy. I watched Mr. H. take a sip of his wine, while I took a much larger gulp.

"So what are you doing here?" I demanded to know.

"I own this place."

"Really!" I slapped my hand down on the counter, "Well, good for you! Maybe you could answer a question for me, then: why do your employees know my name when I didn't tell them?"

"Do they?"

"Yeah," I assured him, "The guy at the booth called me Tawny." I watched Mr. H. grimace, as though he had been afraid something like this would happen. I would have paid more attention to this expression, had I not been practically drunk.

"Would you like another drink, Tawny?" Mr. H. asked me, changing the subject abruptly.

"No, I still -" I stopped talking as I looked down at my now-empty glass; I could have sworn that it was still half full.

"Well, now that you mention it, I would like another glass," I told him. Jimmy was near us in an instant, and refilled my glass.

"So what's with your name?" I suddenly asked Mr. H.

"My name?" he looked utterly confused.

"Yeah," I nodded, taking a drink, "What's your real name?"

"What makes you think that isn't my real name?" he challenged.

"Because nobody has the first name of Mr. H," I explained.

"Maybe I do."

"Well," I grimaced, "I'm going to drop the Mister."

"Why is that?" he smiled slightly.

"Because you're not superior to me, sir," I drawled, "I know you might think that you are...but you're not." I nodded my head once very abruptly as Mr. H.'s face came in and out of focus. I put a hand on either side of my head in order to keep it steady, but it didn't help very much.

"Very well," Mr. H. sighed, "You may call me H."

"What the hell does that even stand for?" I demanded to know, swallowing down another drink, "I know what you're trying to do. You're trying to be all mysterious and whatnot, but I'm not going to fall for it." I then attempted to stand up, but immediately got dizzy and nearly fell over. I would have, too, if Mr. H. - or rather, H, as I was now beginning to call him - hadn't caught my arm and held me up.

"Perhaps you should get some air," he told me; I tried to shake my head, but that just made everything even foggier, so I let H lead me outside to where the fresh air did me a bit of good, but the street lamps made my eyes hurt. I turned around and hid my face in H's chest, a move which he seemed to be very uncomfortable with.

"Tawny, maybe you should go home," H told me warily.

"I don't want to," I complained.

"Why not?" he wanted to know, seeming utterly confused. I looked up into his face, my drunken self staring at him in awe. He was so beautiful; I just wanted to touch him and kiss his mouth over and over again.

"I don't want to be alone," I told him softly.

"Sometimes, being alone is the best thing for us," he whispered, his eyes locking with mine.

"Sometimes, it isn't," I countered, tilting my head up, wanting him to kiss me already. He didn't seem too keen on the idea, however - at least, not at first. Eventually, though, he began to bring his face toward mine. Our lips were soon only a millimeter apart.

And then I turned away from him and puked my guts out on the street.

"Alright, Tawny," H sighed, "Let's get you home."