Dulcis Mors Mortis

There was a promise that if one of us died after the funeral we'd go to the closest bar and get alcohol poisoning. And boy, did we keep that promise.

We were in New York City, where Fisher had been living. Where I have been living. It was a wonder how we didn't see each other. But after high school I assumed that he didn't want much to do with me anymore. I think I was right.

So the bar was gigantic and fancy, full of all the different bottles of expensive alcohol, making Matty cringe when they said they didn't have any Fat Tire beer. We settled for bottles and bottles of champagne, wanting to keep sucking on her glasses but not literally get sent to the hospital. And we toasted to Fisher hundreds of times, talking of the great memories we had together and talking of how in the end Fisher was the center of the clockwork.

"I'd like to toast to when Fisher was drunker than any one of us yet he still cleaned up Celia after she threw up in the rose bush." Matty raised a champagne glass as we all chuckled and the others looked at me with a pitiful yet loving look. I brushed back my red hair and raised the glass my small hand held, afterwards chugging it full then refilling to the brim. My turn.

"I'd like to toast to when Fisher pretended to be Tate's boyfriend after that slobby douche attempted to molest you." I looked over at her, a grin on my face. "And he was so wasted he said you were pregnant." Tate started cackling.

"He thought that'd help." She commented. "But really that just let to months of rumors and everyone thinking we were actually dating."

Now Jude was nearly booming with laughter. "The only time Mr. Fisher Clarke ever truly fucked up."

"I'll toast to that!" Matty announced and we raised glasses, drinking them to our satisfaction.

Jude cleared his throat, obviously about to say an important one. "I wanna toast to Fisher's undying love for all of us drunkies. How he stuck with us even when Helen and her marvelous friends welcomed him back with open arms. How he took care of us and cherished us. And especially how he loved you, Celia." Now he's looking me in the eye, attempting to make connection through the drunken haze. I would probably start to cry I was so wasted. "Fisher loved you unlike any other, and it was heartwarming to see it. And when I talked to him while he was in New York and me back in shitty Ohio, all he ever really talked about was how much he missed you."

There was silence. Jazz played in the background. A few elder women were cackling over by the bar while a young couple touched foreheads. The bartender poured themselves a shot of whiskey and kicked back while watching attendees. I tried to look anywhere except at Jude, who deep down knew I had no idea what Fisher ever felt.

"Well, fuck." I said quietly.

And then we all broke into a fit of laughter.