"Ohhh...I am not working late on St. Patty's Day," she said, whining mildly after seeing the new file on her desk. The whining, and the pout which accompanied it, were entirely unnecessary, as no one else was listening. The comment was directed at no one in particular, other than her inner resolve.

She was accustomed to getting her way, so much so that she no longer gave it much thought. As if it was her birthright. What she wanted, she got, and whether or not she deserved it never came under consideration. And what she wanted, right now, was to get out of this office on time tonight, Friday March 17th, and not miss a vital minute of the revelry which surely awaited at O'Sweeney's.

But revelry, and warmth and intense human connection, were by no means assured, at O'Sweeney's or any other place, on this or any other night. Yet she prowled these same bars, night after night, looking for that elusive something which was missing from her life.

Not that she would admit to looking, nor that anything was missing. She simply wasn't that perceptive. Either that, or her defenses had been so steeled that she'd didn't realize the truth.

She was here or there, every night, drinking first out of sociability and later out of desperation, as the words and feelings and emotions she hoped to find couldn't be found, once again, and the alcohol would numb the tiny sensation she felt, a little more each night, in the pit of her stomach. A longing, an emptiness which was becoming increasingly more difficult for her to deny. By the end of the night, every night, she was far beyond caring.

The next night, and the night after, would be more of the same. She persisted, persevered, always hoping this would be the night when everything would change.

 
 

Copyright 2004, P.J. Anderson