Charlotte Larson
If I Drink Whiskey
If I drink whiskey, I dream of that motel room in Butte. How I stuffed my socks into my boots, and stripped the soggy sheets off the mattress, leaving them in a pile on the floor. You stood up on the bedside table covered with leftover lottery tickets. With the box cutter from your back pocket, you worked on the painted-shut window. I snuck away to the bathroom to wipe my face, to splash cold water under my armpits. Above the mirror, a water stained picture of Jesus looked down on me as I peeled off my cotton underwear and tossed them in the garbage. A miniature statue of Mother Mary handed me blue bar soap.
When I came out, you were fed up. You sucker punched the window. One.Two.Three. You busted the frame right down the side. Jumping up and down on the bed, you held up your fist like a prize fighter. That’s me Baby, you shouted. I’m always the last one in the ring! Splinters dripped from your knuckles, and I wrapped them with a wet towel while you finished a beer with your good hand. Even though the evening smoke made it hard to breathe, you tugged me to the bed so we could lie together. Waiting for some kind of dry breeze. We were afternoon shadows in the sun-drenched room. There was no outside world, just us.
I was on your chest and you asked for more kisses: just one more. One for good luck, one for healing, Babybabybaby come on, you know I need them. I straddled you, hooking my fingers into the loops of your dirty jeans. My chin was raw from your scruff, but I kissed you deep. Whatever you said, I probably needed you worse. Your tongue found its way to the back of my throat. You tasted like Hams and river water and you filled me up up and up.
You had called it our motel getaway. A night away. Something different. You didn’t have to convince me. We were bored searching for quarters and waiting for pool tables and pitchers. We’d run out of our usual hideouts: the bar by the train tracks, our sandspit down by the green river that was only big enough for a towel and for me to stretch out so you could put your hands up my shirt. No one liked us together. At night, my friends hid my phone and pulled me onto the dance floor. They taught me how to swing, to shoot sunflower seeds like darts, anything to distract me.
I would never admit that I liked running into you. Finding you outside in a cool alley. We’d share a smoke in the dark, passing it back and forth. I’d touched every scar on your body, folded up and kept all your white T-shirts, seen how you reached out for me in your sleep. For those few sticky weeks, I stayed out for last call. I’d wait till I felt you touch the small of my back. For you to ask if I was ready to walk home.
On our way, you stopped for smokes, jerky, and cheap matching sunglasses from the gas station. Somewhere outside of Anaconda, the mountains turned lavender and you started singing. You had a husky singing voice, but you belted it out, tapping along on the steering wheel. You were the only man I had ever heard sing besides my Grandpa in church. You taught me campfire songs, boy scouts songs, wait, wait Baby what about this one? You gotta know this one songs. You wouldn’t let me be shy. Really sing. Come on, do it, I know you can. Just try. I leaned over, squeezing your inner thigh. I’ll sing when I get a little drunker, I said. You started driving with your knee and swerved when you bit my lip. You’ll do anything if I get you a little drunker. When we weren’t singing or kissing, we were quiet. I counted every antiabortion billboard and picked at my knuckles, cracked from scraping too many breakfast plates. I stuffed them under my legs so you wouldn’t see. We never really had much to talk about. All we could do was watch the ash fall on the road.
I stood outside while you paid for the room. I pressed my back to the dusty car door, the air was tight, like it is before a storm. I was just buzzed enough to steal one of your last smokes. Across the parking lot, men, who were really boys, were drinking out the back of their Rams. One waved me over. Come on Baby. There’s a seat right here next to me. I made it special for you. I didn’t move. He licked his lips and howled. The rest of them yipped.
When I go find you, you were still filling out paperwork, signing our names as Mr. and Mrs. Newlyweds. The woman at the front counter didn’t care until she saw me. She turned down her gameshow, stuck her gum in the ashtray. You tipped your imaginary hat and said thank you. She watched you grab my hand and pull me towards the room. She shook her head, turning her back to see who the winner was. It was like she felt sorry for me.
I was drunk when you took my picture. In the picture I’m rolling on the grainy brown carpet, eyes heavy, my face cherry red from giggling. The bottle was so heavy I held it with both hands. Half a sip trickled out and down my cheek. You handed me the photo and I studied the girl’s face. She looked like a baby.
We’d been there all afternoon, you with your Ham’s and me sipping Tennessee honey out of the bottle. The plastic fan whirling whirling whirling. The more pulls I took, the more I let my braid fall out. The more I scanned the room for leftover jewelry, the warmer I got. The more I drank, I was someone else.
Even with the window open, the room got hotter, everything smelling like fresh asphalt. The beers eventually ran out, and you started calling me sweet names. I knew you’d had too much. You flopped down on the floor, pulling your Stetsons off and throwing them at the wall. Hard enough to leave a mark. You were breathing heavy, words slurred together, calling me something like a delicious dream. I was sticky with sweat and whiskey. I liked seeing you like this, kind of helpless for once. Standing above you, I hiked up my dress. Just enough. I was the burlesque girl hanging on your bedroom wall. I was the stripper who called you “a regular.” I was the girl in the corner of the bar with the see-through tank top. I was someone else.
My brown butter. You stood up so quick you scared me. You were taller than me by two heads. You locked and bolted the door. Yanked all the blinds down. Turning up the TV to drown out the boys smashing bottles in the parking lot. My girl. It was just you and I, and your eyes never left me when I started dancing. One tug and my freckled shoulder slipped out. My zipper snaked down, until my dress was on the floor with the sheets. You took out the camera again and I twirled, I skipped, I laughed, the room was spinning and I was too, leaping across the room, I moved like a deer, arching my neck back, pausing only for a better picture, for one more pull, the whiskey tasted like water, I scissor kicked my legs, spread myself open, the room trembled, headlights flickered on the walls as I reached out and sucked on your fingers, you ran out of film and patience, I couldn’t slow down and you moved closer and closer.
I never thought it would end like this. By you chasing me into the cool bathroom. Your mouth like a rabid dog. You kept screaming I need you.I need you.Ineedyou. I don’t remember getting in the shower, but there we were. Together, under cold water.
It must have been the last time. What I remembered most were your eyes. When you were inside me, they stayed wide open. You put your hand on the back of my neck and pulled. Pulled till my face was against yours. It was the closest we ever were. Warm period blood leaked out, running down my legs and drained in between our toes. I was too drunk to be embarrassed, too drunk not to love you. You turned me around, pressing my face against the glass–Baby, you feel so much better than she does, you said.
The taste of honey coated the back of my throat. I stopped breathing but I came anyway. Shaking and squeezing myself into you. Until it was over. Until it was just us again.
I slipped down to my knees. The shower floor gritty and yellow. Water filled my ears, drowning out everything. I would have stayed there forever, but you picked me up. Carefully. Pushing my hair out of my face. You washed me. Like I was a little kid, you scrubbed my back with bar soap. Wiped my bloody legs till the water ran clear. Before I got out, you wrapped me in a damp towel and cradled me to your chest. You smelled like sweet smoke. You smelled so familiar. You didn’t know what you said and I didn’t tell you.
If I drink whiskey, I dream of that motel room in Butte. I wake up wet and thirsty, like you were still there, somewhere in the dark. It took a few moments to remember that those weeks in August happened years ago.
Like most things, we didn’t last, and by winter I had gotten used to sleeping alone. But you were everywhere, at stoplights, in the same aisle of the grocery store. Every Sunday, sitting at the diner counter, waiting for me to come over. Waiting to look at my tired eyes and my apron covered in crusty ketchup and huckleberry syrup. I’d pour you a drip coffee and you’d ask for two sugars, the real sugars. You know what I like. You’d leave a big tip and linger until there were no more crosswords left. I’d flip hash browns, roll silverware, refill salt, pepper, oil, wash my hands again, again and again with a swollen throat. Waiting for the bell on the door to open and close. So I could breathe. I moved away by spring, and I hadn’t been back since. I never had the chance to ask you who she was. I’m not sure you’d even remember.
Charlotte Rose Larson received her BA in Creative Writing at University of Montana. She writes copy for an advertising agency by day and works on her debut novel, So Long Honey, in between meetings. This is her first published short story.
