mayan calendar
“They say the world’s supposed to end tomorrow.”
Luisa says it as nonchalantly as possible, the bottle of vodka open next to her and already more than a third empty. It isn’t her favorite in terms of taste because there isn’t really much taste with good vodka. If anything, it feels just like drinking water but with a slight burn to it. She drinks vodka when she wants to be drunk. She can pretend that it’s water until she doesn’t need to pretend anymore.
Even without drinking for months since her last graduation from rehab, Luisa’s still a functional alcoholic. She could have bottles of beer at a time and not feel the effect of any of it. Those aren’t her favorite either. They’re more Rafael’s speed – beer and whiskey and gin and all that very strong masculine whatever because guys don’t want to drink the fruity flavors. That isn’t to say those are her favorite either; as much as Luisa does enjoy her pina coladas and daiquiris, they don’t do anything for her. Sometimes she wonders if she even has a favorite anymore.
She does. She doesn’t like to think about it. It makes her want to drink.
What does it matter when she’s already drinking?
Luisa’s head lilts to one side, dark brown hair cascading in waves across her open hand, and when she smiles, it seems almost as bitter as the drinks she isn’t drinking. Her eyes aren’t glazed over. She seems coherent, cognizant, sober, if Rose couldn’t see the open bottle next to her or the glass that she isn’t even sure Luisa is using resting on the countertop, if she couldn’t smell the liquor on her breath.
Rose has never much liked alcohol. Her father was much like Rafael – a beer, whiskey, gin man who would drink too much and try to sleep it off and forget that he even had a daughter to begin with, much less the wife who had left him months, days, years previously. He’d wake up stone cold sober with a hangover he only knew how to quench with more liquor, get to work with eyes and face red from drinking too much, and pound away at his woodwork so well that his managers never questioned him about it. What did it matter what he pounded when he got back from work?
“They say the world’s supposed to end tomorrow,” Luisa says, picking up her glass and toasting her with it, “and I thought, why not?” Her smile is watery and bitter and unpleasant, and she throws back the glass like a high school girl would throw back a shot, but it lands on the table with the softest of clinks like wine glasses barely touching each other at a tasting.
Rose doesn’t like alcohol, but she’s grown accustomed to wine. It is impossible to run about in the upper echelons of the circles she’s had to run around in – whether that was with Elena or now with Emilio – without being able to taste and appreciate and talk about wine. Its unique flavor she knows well, and she can talk anyone under the table with her knowledge, if she wants. But those upper echelons don’t want to hear about a crinkle-haired redhead running barefoot through Switzerland vineyards and grabbing grapes with her hands to test if they’re ripe, don’t want to hear about summers spent smashing grapes with the same bare feet to make the sweetest juice she had ever tasted, don’t want to hear about missing teeth and a freckled face and purple-red splatters on overalls and bare hands and cheeks that only seem paler for the dark color splashed against them. They like to believe she is one of them, and regaling them with those tales would only serve to undermine her.
“May I?” Rose takes the glass and pours herself a little bit from the open bottle then passes the glass back and forth between her hands before taking a little sip of it. She has never liked the taste of vodka. It’s never felt as smooth to her as she knows Luisa believes it is. The burn feels a little like being strangled, and she splutters, coughs, covers her mouth before taking another drink to soothe herself and forcing it down, forcing it to stay down.
“I thought you didn’t drink unless….” Luisa shakes her head, swallows once, and her spit tastes sour after the vodka. She brushes her hand through her long brown hair and then rests her forehead against it. “You wanted to drink at the bar.”
“I thought you didn’t drink anymore,” Rose says, head tilting so that her blue eyes can glance over the form of the woman next to her. Luisa cradles her head like she already has the hangover she won’t have until the morning, if she has one at all, if she lets herself have one.
“They say the world is supposed to end tomorrow,” Luisa says a third time, and she turns her head just enough so that she can meet Rose’s eyes, “and I always drink when my world is ending.” She smiles, and it isn’t bitter this time, just far away. Rose can see it, can see the smile, and knows even without the physical shrug that that’s what Luisa is doing, mentally. “So let me get another glass.” Luisa starts to stand and slips, stumbles, and then rights herself before Rose can reach a hand out to steady her. “We can toast it together.”
Rose watches her and Luisa steadies herself against the counter, hands tight on its edge to keep herself upright, and presses her lips together. “Here,” Rose says, finally, and she takes one of Luisa’s hands in her own. “Lean on me. I’m here.”
“Are you really?” Luisa asks, staring at her again. “Or am I making you up just so that I don’t have to see the world end alone?”
“I’m really here,” Rose says, meeting Luisa’s eyes. She squeezes her hand. “My hand on your hand.” Then, immediately, without thinking, she cups her cheek. “My hand on your cheek.”
Luisa nods once, repeating after her. “Your hand on my hand,” she murmurs, glancing down and closing her eyes, turning her hand so that their fingers can interlace together. “Your hand on my cheek,” she repeats, turning her face just enough to press a kiss to her palm. “Your skin on my lips.”
Rose slowly moves Luisa so that the other woman leans against her, and she walks her over to the couch, where they both sit. Luisa leans more against her now than she did as they were walking, collapsing on her, letting her head loll onto Rose’s shoulder. Her eyes flutter open, and she looks over to the counter. “You forgot the vodka.”
“I didn’t forget the vodka,” Rose corrects, and she rests her chin atop Luisa’s head. “I left it there on purpose. Just because the world is ending doesn’t mean it’s time for you to drink.”
Luisa’s brows furrow, and she looks up just enough to press a kiss to Rose’s chin. “I think that’s the best – the only – time to drink. It dulls the pain.”
“And if the world doesn’t end?” Rose asks, brushing Luisa’s hair back and meeting her eyes. “You’ll be drinking again for nothing.”
“I can stop whenever I want,” Luisa says, but they both know that it isn’t true. She curls against Rose’s chest, burrows her head just there. “My head on your chest,” she murmurs as she closes her eyes again. “The fabric of your shirt on my skin. Your heartbeat in my ears.”
Rose is gentle, when she kisses Luisa’s forehead, when she wraps her arm around her, and she holds her close. “If the world doesn’t end,” she says, her voice soft, “you have to go back to rehab next year. You have to go to a good rehab. One that does more than whatever the one you’ve been going to did because that one isn’t working.”
“Ok,” Luisa says, and she opens her eyes just enough to look up at Rose again. “And if the world ends?”
It’s not easy to think about. Rose refuses to think about it. Luisa isn’t either; she’s been drinking to not feel the weight of it on her shoulders. There’s never been any weight on Rose’s shoulders like Luisa.
“Then I’m glad that I’m with you,” Rose murmurs.
Luisa smiles, but there’s still that sadness there, no bitterness, just grief. “I’m glad you’re with me, too,” she says, and together they stare out the window as the clock continues to count down.