pennyalice
I steadied my wobbling head and held on tightly to the marble surface of the bar. I was struggling to focus through the stained glass windows of my eyes, but could just about make out the barman’s raised eyebrow and half-smile.
“No you haven’t love,” he said.
“Yes I fucking have paid, god damn it! I just paid you!” came my warbled reply.
I grabbed the bottle of champagne from his grasp – there was a tiny struggle – and then it was in my arms. I was so triumphant that I immediately started hacking away at the black foil with my teeth, laughing manically. “Did you see that, Rose! Ha!” I said to my friend behind me, only to realise I was talking to no one; she was gone. I tried to look undeterred, and instead tried to concentrate on my skilful cork-popping.
That was the last thing I remember.
Apparently the cork whizzed off at full speed into my own eye, with the champagne following close behind and spilling not only onto the bar but also the barman’s shirt.
My head hurt. I pulled the unfamiliar bedcovers over my eyes as I was reminded of the previous night. At least the barman had made me breakfast. His name was Mark.
I grabbed the bottle from the barman. 'I've PAID god damn it!!'
I grabbed the foil around the top and ripped it open dramatically, popping the cork and spraying it all over the bar. A bit went in his face.
Apparently I hadn't paid.
I got chucked out soon after that.
I was bland. I looked in the mirror and saw a face of nothingness, and the more I looked, the more I didn't look like me. Not how I pictured myself. How did this one nose, two small eyes, brown hair and pasty skin define who I was?