🗸 the quintessences of cherry & cigarette

4.5: effervescence

"You alright?"

Cerise gives a sluggish nod in response.

"Are you sure?" presses Devin, rubbing her back gently.

"Yeah..." Cerise lifts herself and blinks dazedly. "I need to use the washroom," she says.

"Okay, c'mon."

Devin gets off his barstool, helping Cerise stand and sling her satchel over her shoulder, he proceeds to lead her to the where the washrooms are. His hands never leave her swaying and stumbling frame, keeping her from bumping into people or tripping over her own feet. Once they reach the door with the 'LADIES' sign, Cerise pivots on her heels, pokes him in the chest and says, "you're not allowed inside," in what he assumes is supposed to sound like a warning but only comes off with a comical slur. She takes two steps backwards, squinting at him in all seriousness, and adds, "keep out." Following which, she disappears inside, leaving Devin very amused by her alcohol induced idiosyncrasy.

Devin speculates if he should wait for her, but he figures it best to prepare to leave - enough drinking for today. He goes back to the bar to get some lime soda ready for Cerise and make the payment.

***

The center of gravity keeps shifting for Cerise, making it hard for her to stay upright. It was nice at first, but now this lightheadedness is tiring her. She isn't drunk enough to throw up or pass out, just enough to feel like her body is stuck in a bog and her mind is semi-functional.

Propping herself against the sink, Cerise washes her face, hoping for a little bit more self-control - she doesn't want to make a fool of herself in front of Devin. Despite how the alcohol makes her feel - a shifting mix of glee and doubt, and some inexplicable sadness about something she doesn't quite understand - she is happy about her first time drinking, and that too, with Devin Jameston. She is hopelessly in for that boy, and she knows it, no matter how much she keeps dismissing her feelings as teenage hormonal interference and high school crush phase.

The ever persistent question remains - does Devin like her that way? Is she Devin's type? She knows she isn't; she knows isn't what her peers call 'girlfriend material'... she knows he only sees her as a good friend - at best, a best friend, probably. And when they all graduate high school, go their separate ways, he'll forget her because she isn't indelible, she isn't beautiful, she's just 'that girl in high school who liked poetry'. Maybe this is what's seeding the sadness to grow amidst the drunken happiness; the knowledge that Devin doesn't look at her the way she looks at him, the knowledge that her love is unrequited. And it kills her.

In her cupped palms, Cerise collects water and once again, washes her face. She repeats the act, rubbing at her face and her eyes until the dampness seems to seep in and settle bone deep, the cold helping her focus better. From beyond the bathroom's door, she can hear the DJ's mix restart, thumping like low magnitude seismic waves. I should go back out, she tells herself, remembering that she left Devin waiting there.

Taking a couple of paper towels from the dispenser beside the sink, she dabs her skin dry. Just as she prepares to leave the washroom, her phone takes the moment to ring. She brings it out of her bag only to gape at the caller ID in horror. An onerous dread fills her bloodstream as the name 'Jenny' illuminates the screen. Abruptly, the ringing stops with the message '5 Missed Calls', and her already thundering pulse suddenly sounds louder than the beat drops pounding in The Underworld.

Knowing Jennifer will call again, Cerise quickly locks herself in the farthest cubicle to further drown out the music from the club. And just like she expected, the phone rings. She takes a deep breath and answers the call.

"Hello?"

Without premise, Jennifer asks the very question Cerise premonitively dreaded. "Where are you?"

Cerise has to swallow before she can reply. "At work..."

"How about you tell that lie to my face?" Jennifer's razor-edged challenge makes Cerise's legs feels leaden.

"I--"

"You better be home in five minutes."

Cerise feels just as dead as the disconnected line on her phone. She needs to reach home, for the more she delays, the worse her impending grim fate will be. The sound of her bloodrush overpowering the club's music, her heart thudding against her rib cage, she exits the bathroom, but finds no trace of Devin. She calls his cellphone before realizing that he might not be able to hear the ringing over the cacophony. Her doubt is confirmed when he doesn't answer.

A sense of foreboding, like she is running out of time, descends upon her like an asphyxiating smog. Instead of looking for Devin, Cerise chooses to abscond - she will call him later and explain why she abandoned him. She pauses at the entrance foyer nevertheless, looking back into The Underworld's depths one last time, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. In the epileptic codominance of abyssal blackness and psychedelic lightbursts, she doesn't find him. Heart sinking, she turns and leaves the club, reconnoitering her surroundings so she can pick the fastest path homewards.

***