puddles and rain. the rain is making puddles. the puddles are painting themselves across asphalt, reflecting the colors of the neon lights above them. i look up from the puddles, the asphalt, up to the neon lights instead. the ground holds no answers for me, but the only question i have is where exactly i’ve ended up.
the lights promise to answer this, declaring PARADISE, bright pink and green painting my face the way the rain paints the ground. the asphalt sounds rough, gritty under my shoes as i push open the door. the light flickers as i push open the door, but it does not turn off. light bleeds through the crack i’ve pushed open in the door. the room fully envelops me, i bathe in muted neon, taking my place on a stool at the bar. it’s empty in here, it always is these days, it seems. the bartop is painted in spilled drinks, the way the rain might paint the ground, reflecting the lights all around the room.
i order my usual, the bottle appearing without further prompting. the glass in my hand looks like a stained glass window, like you might find in a church. i don’t think i’ve been to church in a long time, but i can’t quite remember. i take a sip of my drink, the liquid tasting purely like a memory, something sweet the way nostalgia is sweet. the way it washes down to my core feels like the way the rain paints the ground, my stomach reflecting the memories i can’t understand anymore.
i tip the bottle, just slightly, and allow the memories to pour out onto the bartop. the colors swirl, like the way a puddle reflects the neon lights glowing above it. looking at it from this angle doesn’t clarify anything, but it’s pretty. the colors mix and merge, flowing in patterns that are almost hypnotizing. as the fluid spreads across, it branches out, looking like the veins beneath my own skin. i look at my wrists to compare. the colors and i, we are both so alive. more and more pours out of the bottle, across the bar, and spills to the floor like a little nebula. i’m nothing but entranced by it, how beautiful the world can be.
the bottle lies on its side upon the bar as i begin to dance in the center of the room. gentle and slow, but i can’t remember if there’s supposed to be music. i can’t remember the steps, but my body flows into the right motions anyways. i dance like a gentle rain, i dance like the reflection of colors in a puddle. i dance like i might not need to remember where i was before, like i might never need to leave. my drink continues to spread, and i begin to feel it slick the tiles beneath my feet. the bottle rolls on the bartop, but it does not fall off.
something is calling for me, but i cannot hear its voice from in here. i’m not sure i even want to. it is persistent, however, the feeling that something is trying to reach me.
i’m back on my stool, but not certain why. the memories spilled all around my are back in my bottle. piya is at the stool next to me. i don’t remember anyone else being here. i’m not sure how she managed to get here. she’s drinking something from a simple, clear glass. the liquid contained in it just a simple alcohol. i wasn’t aware they served that here. it bothers me in a way i can’t seem to get over.
she notices my discomfort, and quietly apologizes, and then her hand is holding blue and green seaglass in the shape of a cup. her drink shifts to be the same as my own, but a little less sweet. she finally looks me in the eyes. i look away from her entirely. she’s trying not to change the atmosphere, but we both know she’s changed something irreversible. her presence means she has something to tell me, but i don’t want to hear it. she knows this. she sighs.
the stool and the bar are still solid beneath me, but the room is no longer around us. the asphalt below me is no longer painted with rain, the neon lights glowing to no one and nothing in the dark sky above. i sigh. i look at piya, her eyes staring into me. she turns her gaze behind us, my eyes follow. the sign above the door now reads REALITY.
i turn back around, going to take a sip of my drink. piya stops me, motioning for me to tip the bottle again. in the fluid on the bartop, i no longer see something pretty. its dark and tastes like something i shouldn’t be running from anymore. piya watches with me, then gently pats my back before walking through the door.
when i finally follow her, there’s nothing on the other side. nothing pretty, at least.