OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

eleven.

Maybe she would get drunk and not show up for work the next day. Maybe that would be the risk she was willing to finally take.

By the time Reagan had downed her third beer, many members of their party had left the tavern for the night. She had earned kudos from everyone who bid her goodbye, all of them commenting on her excellent drum playing. If she hadn't been so buzzed, she would have shown more humbleness.

Soon enough, only two members from the Melvins along with the Nirvana crew were left in the Comet. Kurt had retired to the van, claiming that his stomach hurt and he needed to lay down. Krist was too drunk to drive and Kurt was in too much pain to even operate the vehicle, so a crossroads had been reached. Thankfully, Kurt was agreeable in simply resting in the van until Krist sobered up.

Reagan was alone at the high top table, her fingers wrapped around the cold exterior of her fourth beer. Krist had relocated himself to the bar, where he'd begun talking to the well versed bartender about bass playing. Dave had gotten up to chat with the Melvins, but he was staring at Reagan again.

She ignored him. Even if she had wanted to stare back, it wouldn't have worked. Everything kept sliding in and out of focus.

Stupid lightweight, Reagan thought, wishing she had eaten a real dinner as she gulped back more beer.

It was late and the Comet was going to close soon, yet Reagan knew she couldn't drive in the condition that she was in. She weighed her options, wondering if she would have to be like Kurt and lay in the car. That way, she could sober up enough to go back to Olympia in time to scrape at least a few hours of sleep until work.

"Are you okay?"

Reagan's head snapped up as a voice overhead yanked her out of her drunken thoughts. She blinked a few times, trying to clear her eyesight in order to identify the person standing in front of her. Once her vision had steadied itself straight, she recognized Dave staring at her.

"I'm fine," Reagan said, ensuring that there was no obvious slur in her voice. She may have been drunk, but she refused to be a sloppy drunk. From the time that Reagan had first ever sipped alcohol, she had sworn that she'd never make a wasted fool of herself.

"I was just checking. You looked like you were about to nod off into your beer," Dave reasoned, sounding more friendly than condescending.

"I wasn't. I was thinking," Reagan explained.

Dave pulled out one of the stools beneath the high top, taking a seat next to Reagan. He was drunk too, but had reigned control of himself with a precision learned only from years of teenage drinking.

"What were you thinking about?" he questioned.

Reagan scoffed. "Should you really be asking me that?"

"Okay, forget I asked," Dave laughed, unruffled by Reagan's surliness.

Reagan moved her fingers around the slippery condensation of her glass, debating childishly over whether or not she could divulge herself to Dave. She barely knew him, but she was also drunk, and she felt relief knowing that if she did reveal the worst parts of her existence to him, she would never have to see him again.

"Okay," she began. "I'm mad at myself because I'm drunk and I can't drive home to Olympia when I have to work tomorrow. And if I don't go into work tomorrow, I'll get fired. And I can't get fired because if I lose my job, my family will kill me. But I'm not sure at this point if being dead is comparably better than working."

Dave listened keenly, leaning over his clasped fists on the table. His long tresses of hair leaned forward with him, but Reagan could still look into his purposeful gaze. He seemed to examine Reagan's situation at hand with a real determination to solve it.