A Romance Undocumented

Chapter 3: Drunken Love

Hamilton POV:

I sit at the tavern, the dingy interior matching my melancholy demeanor. I discover myself staring intently at the mahogany counter. I'm not even aware of how long I've been staring, but the blur in my eyes indicates it's been a considerable amount of time, occupied with nothing but thoughts only to be forgotten. While I wish I could pretend that my main thoughts centered on economics, I could only think of Jefferson, some part of me wanted to be around him. I decide to take a few more shots to introduce some sense into my thought muddled brain. My feet dangle from the oak carved stool, slowly losing feeling, I am too distraught to mind, the painful tingling provides distraction from my anger.

The burning sensation of the subpar alcohol feels nice, something to distract me from the uncertainties of the future. I watch as a young woman strides to a nearby stool. I glance at her, admiring her hair, decorated with ribbons and styled with perfect ringlet curls. She carries herself with grace, something hard to do, especially when you've reached the extreme level of loneliness you find comfort in a place like this, hoping to drown in cheap alcohol. Although this woman was gorgeous, I couldn't help but pity her. Why would a woman of such high status, clear from the standard of her clothing, be sitting at a dark and tired tavern at this hour?

I relate to her in a way, I pity myself just as much, for I will be the first to admit my lonesome nights are frequent. My initial assumption was that she was waiting for her husband, but as the night got darker, and the final crackles of the fire signified its final flame, it became quite obvious she was here alone. I, feeling quite bold, and somewhat buzzed, decide to talk to this woman, after all a man of my age, unmarried, would strike some people as odd. I needed a female suitor, or my lineage would surely be disgraced by the void of children. I was approaching 22, and had yet to love a woman. I introduce myself,

"Hello, My name is Hamilton, Alexander Hamilton."

"Well, nice to meet you hamilton, My name is Elizabeth"

Her voice is smooth, and although she spews merely words, I am starstruck at how alluring a sentence could sound. I want so much to like this woman, I want so much to be aroused by her. I answer, in a lame attempt to flirt,

"Elizabeth is a beautiful name."

I am unsure of how to proceed, I fear that I am in too deep, this conversation must continue.

"Why thank you, Alexander. So, what brings you to the tavern tonight?" She asks.

I pause, and take a moment to contemplate my response.

"In this time of economic uncertainty, I think we all need a drink" I remark, feeling quite sly.

The conversation drags on for a little while. It is far past midnight when we both agree that our fatigue was too great, and we needed to head to our abodes. Although straining, my time with Elizabeth is wonderful, she is such a bright young woman, who will go on to marry an excellent man, and bore wondrous children. I want so badly to lust for her, to want to pursue her, but I can't help but think of Thomas. I hate myself for it, but why is the only person who I care about seeing, about being with, my one true enemy. How has this wretched man become the center of all my thoughts, how is it possible that when I imagine my future, I imagine Thomas in it? I violently shake my head in a desperate attempt to erase my thoughts.

I thought of Elizabeth, and our connection. Our conversations were marvelous, and she was a fantastic specimen. I want to love her, I convince myself that I do. I would pursue her and stop harping on the false reality of any type of thing with Jefferson, as my thoughts were clearly the result of nothing but my own drunken mind, unlike Jefferson, I am not brave, I am not even brave enough to come to terms with my own thoughts, and face the part of me that longs for him.