MARIGOLD // Dave Grohl

V. A Real Treasure

Seattle, WA

April 27, 1994

The bar was fairly empty, especially for this time of night. By eleven, the joint was usually crowded, but the few people there were regulars. Sarah took her third vodka shot of the night, chasing it down with a sip of Sprite. Her face scrunched up in disgust. Why did vodka hurt so badly going down but cause her life to become blissful in a matter of minutes? She ate a fried pickle from the giant platter she ordered-- they were her favorite-- and wiped the grease off her fingers with the napkin beside her.

"How're you doing over there?" the bartender asked Sarah, slowly walking over to tend to his customer. He was an elderly man, he could easily pass as over eighty. He surely dressed like it, as he was wearing slacks and suspenders with a bowtie. He could easily pass as the next generation of Doctor Who. He adjusted his flat cap hat, taking Sarah's empty shot glasses, refilling them. He somehow knew she was going through it.

"I'm doing good, Ralph, I'm doing great. It's my birthday today," she told him, and Ralph raised his eyebrows. "Well, why didn't you say so, hon? Happy birthday! I won't ask which birthday because it's improper to ask a lady about her age..."

"Nah, it's fine. I'm twenty-four now," she muttered, taking another shot with Sprite. Her eyes widened in realization. "Wow, I'm twenty four and I'm alone in a bar drinking vodka and eating fried pickles as my first and last meal of the day."

"Well, now you're not alone," Ralph reassured her with a smile. "No one should be alone on their birthday."

"My best friend died three weeks ago," Sarah said, her facial expression going blank. "He was twenty-seven. He killed himself. And I'm here. He should be here with me."

Ralph's eyebrows furrowed in concern, as he reached over the counter to grip her hand. "I'm so sorry for your loss, dear. It's awful to lose the ones you love, but it's so much worse when they're young."

"Thank you," Sarah said, and Ralph let go of her hand, throwing a towel over his shoulder.

"I'd love nothing more than to stay and chat, but I have other customers to tend to. But I'll be back, I don't want you to be alone," he smiled, walking away to pour drinks for a middle-aged couple across the bar.

"Mind if I join you?" Sarah heard a male voice behind her, and she jumped. A man with soft eyes and a sculpted physique sat on the bar stool next to her, reaching his hand out to introduce himself. "I'm Paul, Paul Morales."

"Sarah Austin," she took his hand, and he flashed a small smile as Ralph headed in their direction. Paul ordered a whiskey sour, then turned back to continue their conversation.

"So what are you doing at this bar by yourself, Sarah Austin?" Paul asked. He had an accent. Sarah didn't know if it was the alcohol or just the developing butterflies inside her stomach, but this guy was getting increasingly attractive by the second.

"It's my birthday, and I didn't have anything else better to do, and I didn't want to spend it in my hotel room," Sarah told him, and Paul gasped, feigning shock.

"How could you deny the opportunity to get room service? That's the best part!" he exclaimed, making Sarah laugh.

"I just can't be alone. I went through some stuff recently and being alone means being alone with my thoughts. Which are not pretty right about now," she said, and Paul frowned.

"I hope you don't mind me asking, but what happened? It's totally fine if you don't feel comfortable answering."

"My best friend committed suicide a few weeks ago. This is my first birthday without him since 1981. He had just turned twenty-seven two months ago," Sarah recited, the words beginning to have less and less of an impact on her emotionally. She couldn't tell if this was her mind's way of recovering or repressing her emotions.

"I am so unbelievably sorry for your loss," Paul began, and Sarah quickly replied with a "Thank you," taking a sip of her Sprite. Even the "sorrys" were losing their meaning.

"You know, I had a similar thing happen when I was younger," Paul told her, slightly changing the subject, relieving some of Sarah's tension. "I went to school on my birthday. It was a Tuesday. My mother had promised me her famous tres leches cake after dinner that night, and I was looking forward to it all day. I walked off the bus and into my house to see no one there. My parents and my sister were all missing. It turns out that they were deported to Venezuela. I was the only one actually born in the U.S.-- in Miami. I had to spend my eleventh birthday with my neighbors as they called foster agencies. That eventually landed me here, in Seattle, and I've been here ever since. I mean, no one died and I know my pain doesn't even begin to amount to yours, but--"

"That's actually really comforting to know I'm not alone, thank you," she interrupted him, and he smiled softly, taking a sip of his drink.

"It's no problem, really. I hate to see someone as beautiful as you so upset on a day that you should be celebrating."

"It's just not the same without Kurt," Sarah said, and it was then that she realized the alcohol now had full control over her brain.

"Woah, back up," Paul's eyebrows raised, as he was unsure if he heard her correctly. "Kurt as in Kurt Cobain? You were friends with him?"

"Yeah, we grew up together," Sarah replied. "I moved to New York for college and we lost contact for a while. But yeah, we were best friends so I feel kind of lost without him."

"Understandably. Damn. Kurt Cobain. He was a real treasure," Paul spoke his thoughts, and Sarah nodded. "Yeah, he was."

The two of them sat there at the bar in silence for about five minutes, taking sips of their drinks and staring off into space. Paul occasionally stole a fried pickle or two, and Sarah's reaction was a mere smile. Ralph approached them to check up on their drinks, and Paul turned to Sarah. "What if we got out of here?" he asked, and Sarah raised her eyebrows. Why not?

"Alright," she responded, and Paul pulled out his wallet, placing a small pile of cash on the counter.

"This should be enough to cover both of our tabs, Ralph. And keep the rest as a tip. Have a great night!" Paul told the bartender, who nodded in thanks before bidding them a good night.

Sarah and Paul got a cab and were transported to her room at the Best Western. Surprised that she made it into the room in one piece without much help from Paul, she closed the door and willingly walked into his embrace, connecting their lips. Things intensified quite quickly, clothes were removed, and Sarah's grief-stricken world was turned golden.

A/N Wilmer Valderrama is one of the few men capable of turning me straight lmaooo enjoy visualizing him as Paul Morales: the kind, muscular, sexy god.