Cold Chicken
By: Kyle Cox
I love food more than just about anything else.
A stressful day at work. A boring day at work. Either is a good enough reason to want a distraction. I pretend to be excited about grabbing a drink with Celeste. A girls’ night, she says. She’s nice. Seems smart. Talks about films I should have already seen. We settle on cocktails at the fancy bar in the basement on the corner. It’s an old building made to look older and the bartender, Paul, holds an impatient, but pleasant, smile while Celeste flaunts her knowledge of wine.
“My uncle was a sommelier,” she turns to me and her eyes light up. “He’d let us sneak the high-end shit back in high school.”
Paul’s eyes glint at me and we share a micro chuckle at her youth followed by active brows at a premise verging on creepy. Does Paul follow that obvious thread as he turns his tight waist to the bar and pours a man a whiskey? The thought of sweet little pubescent Celeste batting her exotic brown eyes over her freckled cheeks at her uncle? For booze? What desires did those freckles churn up in the depths of her uncle? Did it churn up any in Paul? Were they blood-related? Would that matter? Was he a huncle?
Celeste orders us martinis first but I settle into a gin cocktail called “Liberal Studies.” It’s sweet and tart and when I sip it I can smell the star anise bobbing and booping off the tip of my nose. This will be one of those cocktails I remember more fondly than it ever tasted. By my second gin, I abandon any notions of a salad and order the special. A take on a certain fast-food favorite by the closet-kitchen chef, who probably learned more from YouTube than culinary school. Paul tells me I can have it either rare or medium rare. Why did that make me feel flirty? I sit up and arch my back before crossing my arms and leaning on the bar.
“Rare.”
He winks at me and nods, but with that same look he gave her. I turn to see if Celeste noticed but she is scrolling. She looks up for a moment, remembering where she is and who with, and falls back into the office gossip from earlier. Something about Steve and the white flakes that adorn his shoulder and neck and how dandruff is actually caused by the toxins they put in cheap shampoos. Or the plastics leaching into them and into our scalps. She’s not even two martinis in but she gets duller and denser with each sip.
By my third gin—it must be my fifth drink if you count the leftover Stella I grabbed when we stopped at my place to change—I am feeling warm in my face and I know my right ear is bright red. I let my hair down to cover it and Celeste pokes me about trying to look flirty. I scoff but then Paul touches the back of my arm, just above my elbow. I jerk but his soft pinch holds me, keeps me from flipping the plate onto his pearl-snapped shirt. It’s not quite a pinch.
He rests the plate on the bar with an expression between sympathy and amusement. He smells good and has kind green eyes, and I just ordered a sloppy cheeseburger which I must now masticate on full display like a zoo animal.
The bar starts to fill up and Celeste takes up with a couple across the corner. Artists? I switch to beer since it makes more sense with a burger. Paul reminds me that it was part of the special and I tell him to surprise me. But the IPA is bitter for the sake of being bitter and I miss the lemon tang of my gin drink.
I attack the burger with a knife and blood pools in the well and has already soaked the bottom bun. I fiddle, timing bites between his turns to the bar or runs to the kitchen. I don’t even like Paul, but this napkin is much too small and does more smearing than absorbing.
“You about ready?”
Celeste is separating the walnuts from the greens of her half-eaten salad. She drops the fork and then her napkin on top. I look at Paul and Paul looks at the bar as he collects her plate. I’m still eating soggy fries. These places always have shit fries.
“Oh, I was actually going to get one more of those gin drinks, to be honest.”
I stretch my eyebrows to the ceiling and sit up straight to prove just how unbuzzed I am. No one is making eye contact, but everyone smiles.
“Well,” Celeste says, pulling her purse to her lap, “I might go meet up with Addy at the gallery, if that’s cool. There’s that showing thingy.”
I have no idea who Addy is or what a showing thing is, but I nod. I look for Paul. He’s with other customers.
“I’m probably just going to go home after this. You know, work tomorrow.”
She nods, her eyes lingering on the empty glasses Paul has yet to collect from me. She takes her card and signs the bill. We exchange a polite hug and she mimes an air kiss on my cheek before leaving a warm half-full cocktail to separate. I realize that this is the closest we’ve ever been. She smells like cotton candy.
“We should totally do this again.”
“Yeah.”
“Bet!”
I hate her.
I time my strike. Paul has taken her bill and turned, and the cloudy gin is settled around the olive. My arm darts across the bar to grab it without detection but I fumble, knocking down my own beer, thankfully now empty, and grip the martini by the rim.
People turn but Paul grabs the fallen soldier and wipes up the small mess I made.
“Oh shit.”
I grin and snort out a laugh.
I’m too drunk to be embarrassed. I guide the warm martini through the air and up to my lips as Paul collects everything else.
He returns and looks on, the amusement leaking through his jaw.
“Did you still want that other drink or-?”
Wherever his amusement went, my manic optimism followed. I see myself more as I must look. His eyes are now more impatient than sympathetic. I am naked.
“Uh, no. This just sounded good. Sorry.”
His smile spreads, relieved.
“That’s O-K. You ready to tab out?”
I am.
The cool breeze and the setting sun are welcoming as I emerge onto the sidewalk. The bars and restaurants are just filling up for dinner. I make my way to the opposite corner and a bell rings as I push through the glass door. It’s cold in here. The man behind the counter eyes me with a rigid smile. I look at the gin and then remember that I forgot to ask Paul what was in that drink. I could go back. No. I check out with a six-pack of Stella, a bottle of wine and star anise because I found it before abandoning my Liberal Studies and was so excited to find it at a downtown bodega.
That burger was so small. I could go for a real Big Mac, but I’ve already taken off my pinched shoes. I remember that there’s cold chicken in the fridge and that expensive mustard made with white wine. Capers. Olives. Why didn’t I just grab the gin? I spend too long looking for a podcast and settle on the same album from last night. It’s a good album. I fondle the neck of the half empty bottle of red and smirk to myself thinking of Celeste and the slutty innuendo she might have bartered with at seventeen.
I swipe a chunk of breast meat through the last of the Dijon and pile on the final olive, savoring the hints of smoke and the bite of brine. The textures. Some people don’t enjoy food, and I can’t decide if I envy or pity them.
I stuff myself knowing that I will hate myself in the morning. That shameful stack of dishes and a headache I should have outgrown by thirty. I drain the last of the wine and open one more beer, knowing I’ll have to pour it out tomorrow, and turn on the TV. I set two extra alarms and plug in my phone. I will hate myself, but this was fun.
