Lizmary Oritz

a woman and a drink

He was drunk.

It was obvious to anyone that happened to pass by, crossing through the gardens and making their way to the party being held in the Vizcaya estate. They would avoid eye contact with the stumbling, fumbling man as they quickened their pace, following the stone paths to the house. The man didn’t care, though. He faltered and tripped his way through the grounds of the property, his hands clenching around an invisible glass as he sought out a bench to sit at.

Under the light of the moon, all could be seen. Tonight, however, it was shy. Stray clouds would cover it occasionally, basking the landscape in darkness before its spotlight was yet again uncovered. Hidden, revealed, hidden, revealed again. The man had a difficult time finding a spot to sit because of this troublesome situation.

The moon peeked out once more before being shrouded with the largest cloud in the sky, and it was just enough to illuminate the white metal bench that stood in front of one of the garden’s many fountains. This one in particular was smaller than the rest, and had a tiny stream that barely shot out of it. The man noticed it and felt a rush of relief, as his feet ached from dancing and walking all night long. He longed to sit and rest, and then get back to dancing and walking again.

He wasn’t alone, though. The silhouette of a girl could be seen, sitting nonchalantly on the seat with her tilted upwards to the sky. Though it was too dark to see her clearly now, as the moon had left yet again, the man could make out her outline.

“”Scuse me, Miss,” his words slurred together like the rush of water coming from the fountain. “This seat taken…?”

The girl said nothing, simply tilting her head slightly towards the empty space beside her. He took this as an invitation to sit and accepted it gratefully. He threw himself onto the bench, and it rattled under his weight. It was a flimsy thing, but hopefully it wouldn’t break with the strain of both of them sitting there.

“What are you doing out here all alone when there’s a party going on in there?” The man’s voice came out breathless and raspy, as if he needed a long, cold drink of water. The girl seemed to notice this and tilted her head again to the fountain behind them. The water, translucent as quartz and as refreshingly crisp as shards of ice, looked absolutely delectable. He thought this a grand idea and leaned over the bench to reach the fountain. Hovering his head just above the surface of the water, the man cupped some of it in his hand and drank it. It was the fountain of youth, surely! Here, in this very establishment! Nothing else could account for the exquisite taste of the water, which seemed to course through his very veins like the ocean freezing over.

“Ah, now that is true water!” The drunk man felt utterly refreshed. “You must have a sip!”

The girl said nothing, and simply turned her attention back to the sky.

“Not much of a talker, are you…” the man trailed off, now settling back into the bench and throwing his head backward to mirror her position. There wasn’t much to see. The constellations tried their best to glow through the array of clouds that sought to hide them, their light centuries-old yet still not being able to reach them. Disappointed by the unengaging view, the man turned back to the girl.

“I hope that I haven’t disrupted your evening,” he murmured, still sensing his intoxication but feeling a bit more controlled than before. “I seem to be doing that often, lately.”

He paused, waiting for her response. She said nothing, though, so he continued.

“I find that liquor truly must be one of God’s greatest creations, truly. Besides the woman, of course,” he corrected his statement quickly, so as to not offend the young lady. “It can do such things! Well, so can women, Now that I think of it, a drink and a woman have much in common. They both drive men crazy! They smell sweet all of the time, but you could taste it and find it to be more bitter than cinnamon. Well, cinnamon can be sweet, too, I suppose. But, it’s also an overwhelmingly nasty taste. To each their own, I guess. Perhaps there's another comparison there...but back to the woman and the drink. I’ve found that the most pleasant-smelling liquor tastes of pure gasoline! Women, too, seem candied and smooth before you finally have your teeth in them- that’s when you discover the sourness, their tartness! It’s like taking a bit of an orange that’s not ready yet, with its acidic anger! Yes, women and liquor are much alike indeed. I can’t get enough of either, it seems. The stronger it is, the more I take in. I try to swallow as much as I can, you see, until there isn’t a drop left. I drink them dry! Maybe that’s why my body feels so weak, each time I cross paths with either. They’re both poison, seeping into your arteries and soul, burning like venom. And yet, the high makes you want more!”

The girl silently agreed, and the man sighed. He rubbed his hand across his wet face, which still had droplets of the fountain water dripping down it.

“I need another drink...or another woman,” he muttered, now feeling the dizziness that accompanies a rushed, drunken speech. “Or both, maybe.” He turned to the girl curiously.

It was still dark enough out that only her shadow could be seen. Though he was sitting right next to her, his eyes kept crossing, and couldn’t focus on anything besides the curves of her outline. Her face was angled towards him -and though he couldn’t see her face- he saw that as another proposition.

As the sound of footsteps approached them, the man leaned forward to kiss the girl on the bench. Her lips were as chilled as the fountain water, and their full edges seemed to fit perfectly against his. Though the kiss was hard, with hard pressure from both him and her, the man let himself sink into her. He grasped the back of her head softly, cupping her like the water from the fountain as he took a long, cold drink.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

It was an older gentleman, with a wobbly can and large framed glasses that he had to constantly push back up the bridge of his nose. The man tore himself away from the girl angrily, bothered at being interrupted. He saw the old man’s approach clearly as the moon peeked out once again, though his depth perception was still distorted enough to give him tunnel vision. The old man seemed out of focus as he came up to them, but the drunk man figured he was standing right in front of them.

“Back inside, sir,” he reminded the old gentleman harshly, his gruff voice ringing clearer than a bell. “The party’s back inside, not out here.”

The old man eyed him incredulously, his gaze shooting back and forth between the drunk and the girl. She hadn’t said anything, but the drunk man could only assume that she was embarrassed at being scolded for something so risque. Kissing a stranger at a party- how despicable! And how enjoyable, all the same.

“And what in God’s name are you doing out here with that?” The old gentleman’s words were accusatory, almost disgusted. The drunk man was offended by this tone and stood up quickly. Though his head spun for a second, he managed to only wobble in place for a second before steadying himself.

“Now you listen here, you old fart. This young lady-” he began, turning to look at the girl and give her a reassuring look. He immediately froze at the sight.

She was still looking upwards at the sky, though now her features were highlighted by the moon that floated above her. Her lips were full and smooth, indeed. Her hair was truly impeccably curled, with not a strand out of place. She wore a stiff white dress that didn’t move in the breeze, and her skin was paler than snow. The drunk man let out a confused groan, stumbling over himself yet again as he backed away from the statue.

The old gentleman let out a loud guffaw, utterly amused by the situation unfolding in front of him. “What a drunk bastard!” His voice echoed through the gardens, as everything grew dark when the moon hid again. “Kissing a marble statue, as if it could kiss him back!”

About Lizmary

Lizmary Ortiz is a Puerto Rican, Philadelphia-based writer and artist that attends Holy Family University. An English-Secondary Education major, Lizmary also writes for a magazine based in Philadelphia called Motivos. She was awarded a citation from the City Council of Philadelphia for her journalistic work. Her Instagram handle is @lizmary_ortiz.