I used to visit all the very gay places / Those come-what-may places Who: Alcohol (aquavitae) What: Baby, we're back. When: Thursday afternoon. Where: Washington, DC. Warnings: None.
Another blackout. Spring break, maybe, or college letting out for summer. She didn't pay mind to the calendar, hardly cared to figure out details. It was what it was -- she was what she was -- and the truth of it? If she rode down that dark highway, big fuckin' deal. She was a big girl, too big to shed a few tears over lost hours-days-weeks-months.
Besides, dollars to doughnuts said she had a good time.
She rolled back into work as though Alison never went missing in the first place. And they, corporate schmucks that the lobbyists were, pursed their thin WASPy lips in distaste. Her coworker-pets hid disapproval behind too-white smiles, welcoming home what they thought was their prodigal daughter but in reality was their patron god.
Alcohol breezed back into the office with a shark's razor grin, cutting past all the bullshit to put her black hats at ease; there was a meeting with the USDA, something about bumping up the recommended number of daily drinks. In and out in 30 minutes, Al's laughter was the tinkly sound of ice against glass while she strutted right back out of the building. She gave them the comforting promise of "yeah, I'll be back tomorrow" with one foot already out the main door.
Then it wasn't heading home, exactly, but something damn close. Alcohol closed her eyes and flared her nostrils, scenting for the right direction. A cab took her the rest of the way to an ostentatious building which oozed money and general bastardry.
"Benny, baby," she purred as much as slurred, smiling up at Big Tobacco's apartment with the fondness of a lover who acted out their frequent threats. A kiss to the doorman's cheek saw Alcohol through; she let down her hair in the elevator, kicked off her shoes in the hallway and was half-dressed between front door and kitchen.
The Ella Fitzgerald song ("I'll live a lush life in some small dive...") Al sang to herself turned hazy fast. This wasn't blackout territory she was sending herself into, but more like a warm bath -- it just happened that she ended her serenading of the apartment with a broken coffee table, a shattered highball glass, a spilled bottle of cognac and herself passed out peacefully on the kitchen floor, one hand still inside the refrigerator. As far as homecomings went, it was about average.