PRELUDE

He looked at the glass before him as though he needed to be convinced to drink its transparent liquid.

He wondered whether the thing holding the liquid was glass or plastic. Polycarbonate, he knew, could imitate glass well enough and, in some cases, do a better job.

He could have tested it in several ways: dropped it to see if it would break, scored it with something sharp, held it to the light, or tapped it for a clear ring instead of a soft thud. He had no interest in any of them.

For all his obsession with doing things the right way, he did not mind calling it glass. Scientists had already described some materials as “plastic glass”, and that was good enough for him.

With the glass in his left hand, he brought it closer to his mouth. He was getting used to the odour and smiled at the thought that, if smell were all he had to go by, he would have called the drink rubbing alcohol. He had no idea why he was so sure that what he was taking was harmless, apart from the general harm alcoholic drinks were known to do.

Rubbing alcohol, unlike what was in his glass, was something he knew well. He had dreaded it as a child whenever he got injured. He used to think adults took immense pleasure in children’s pain from the way they dressed wounds despite the horror on their faces. He later found he could not have been more wrong.

He almost emptied the glass in one gulp, tightening his lips and trapping both cheeks between his molars. Two seconds later, he exhaled through his nose; the passage of air made it feel as though a fire had been kindled inside his head.

“That which I drink is that which I once dreaded,” he said calmly, looking down at the almost empty glass before him.

“First time?” he heard someone say beside him. He realised he was not alone in the room for the first time that evening. He turned his head toward the voice and was impressed by what he saw.

The woman was dark-skinned; she had big brown eyes, thin lips, and loosely curled black hair. She wore a tight red armless-sleeved velvet mini dress that showed her knees.

He looked around and again, for the first time that evening, realised where he was: a bar. Brown chairs, brown tables, and brown walls. The sitting positions followed some pattern, but not one that he could easily decipher. With the sky dark and about two other people in the room, he could tell it was extremely late!

He was wondering how he got there when she spoke to him again.

“Is this your first time here?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“So, what were you drinking?” she said, pointing at his cup. He had no answer to that. He could not remember placing an order or getting served by the bartender. It then made sense why he was sure a few moments earlier that he was taking an alcoholic drink instead of rubbing alcohol. He looked towards the bartender’s shelf, checking for bottles to see if he could remember something, but he could not.

“Let me see,” she said with a little laugh, gesturing for him to pass the glass across the table.

He held the glass in one hand, his chair in the other, moved closer to her, and handed her the glass as he sat down.

“Vodka,” she said a few seconds after drinking from the glass.

“You know a lot about drinks?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, smiling. “Enough to know that the brand of vodka you’re taking is cheap as fuck.”

“Does that explain why it bears an uncanny resemblance to rubbing alcohol?” he asked.

“It sure does,” she replied. “As a matter of fact, I’m taking the same drink,” she said, raising her glass toward him before drinking from it. “A

crappy night deserves a crappy drink!”

He perceived the fragrance coming from her direction, and he loved the smell but could not tell what type of perfume it was. He also saw something else.

“Bad night?” he asked, pointing to the reddish swollen part on her left temple.

She touched the spot unconsciously and looked like she was reliving an event.

“Boyfriend problems,” she replied.

“Can I?” he asked as he gestured with his right hand and indicated that he wanted to examine her face.

“Be my guest,” she shrugged. He moved closer and made it as though he would touch her face. When she did not attempt to resist, he placed his left hand on her chin and tilted her head to his left a little before he felt the swollen spot with his right hand.

“You do not deserve this,” he said after some seconds of examination.

She tilted her head back to face him, his hand still on her chin and their faces almost touching; she smiled and said, “No one gets what they deserve.”

He looked at her amusingly for some seconds before returning to his seat. She emptied the remaining liquid in her glass into her mouth and placed it back on the table with a force that might have broken it if it were made of actual glass.

She stood, pulled her dress down a little, and walked towards the door. She was almost there when she turned around and said, “Actually, I lied. No one gets what they deserve, not always.”

She took a few steps towards him.

“We just might get lucky tonight,” she said as she stretched her right hand towards him. “Come on.”

“You don’t even know my name,” he replied after he had studied her for a while and realised she was taller than he first thought.

“We aren’t getting married,” she replied, smiling. “Come on, boy. It’s getting late…”