PRELUDE

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

He wondered if the material that held the liquid was a product of glass or plastic. With the little he knew, polycarbonate plastics, identical to glass, were cheaper and even served better in place of glass for some purposes.

He knew there were unusual ways to quickly determine which, including dropping the material to see if it would break or using something sharp to make a mark. More straightforward methods would be to place it close to a light source to determine if it were reflective enough-something that could hardly be performed in the current room he was in because of the dull lighting. The simplest would be to tap the material and see if it produces a clear ringing or a soft thudding sound. He had no interest in performing any of those tests.

For someone who was obsessed with the notion of getting things done the right way, he was not bothered by the fact that what he was holding might not be glass, but was commonly referred to as as such, since the material, by scientists, had been described as “plastic glass” and so, he decided that whatever the material was, “glass” was as good a name as any for it.

With the glass in his left hand, he brought it closer to his mouth. He was getting accustomed to the odour he could perceive, and he smiled at the thought that he would have pronounced the drink rubbing alcohol if his sense of smell were the only thing he could go by. He had no idea why he was so confident that what he was taking wasn’t harmful to him-outside the harm generally caused by alcoholic drinks.

In stark contrast to what was in his glass, rubbing alcohol was something he had much experience with. It was something he dreaded as a kid whenever he got himself injured. He used to think that adults took immense pleasure in kids’ pain with how they dressed their wounds regardless of the horror displayed on the faces of said kids. He discovered as he grew that he could not have been more wrong.

He almost emptied the glass in his hand with a single gulp while tightening his lips and occasionally holding both cheeks with the molars in his jaw. He exhaled through his nose after about two seconds; the gas exchange at that point through his nasal passages made him feel like a fire 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 on 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 be taller than he first thought.

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