Kindness

     She'd been sitting at the bar too long, nursing the drink, carefully, like a proper caretaker, like a nurse, somebody with skills, competence and compassion, nursing her drink. The thought bothered her, made her take a quick gulp of the Mule, the Moscow Mule--who even knew what it was, what poison sent fire down her throat.

    Well, she didn't visibly choke or cough. Her eyes watered, she felt hot, but not sweaty enough to call attention to herself, she hoped . . . then wished she hadn't thought of that, that somebody might notice her.

    She should never have come. That much was clear. 

    Clear now.

    The gift of hindsight didn't help when she was wallowing--or was it "struggling?"--whatever meant caught by her own error, her own stupidity, her impulse to . . . whatever it was. To what? Who knew or cared?

    Well, sitting at a bar, stubbornly trying to down a drink she didn't want, didn't like, that burned and blurred rather than soothed was not the answer.

    And now, the bartender was watching her,  coming over, ready to pour another drink, take more of her money, to say she'd been there long enough, too long, time to go. So, she smiled. Tried to smile, but it didn't feel like a smile. The effort was stuck somewhere in her throat, so stuck, that she actually laughed at how hard the struggle to smile was, how wrong, bad, terrible, sad . . . which then made her smile. Well, almost smile.

    "You all right, Ma'am?"

    A rumply voice trying to be kind. She recognized that immediately, the kindness, knew he couldn't help it, knew he was born with that voice, and the words were right, so she raised her head, met his gaze, both of them aware of the tears in her eyes, and now on her cheek.

    She nodded.

    He touched her hand, briefly, very briefly, but enough for her to feel the warmth of another human being, enough to make her strong enough to say thank you, and mean it.