Making Scenes

“I don’t know how cops’ wives can stand their husbands being on the job,” Harry said to Mick, who was sitting on the next bar stool.

“Yeah, man. It’s gotta be tough,” Mick mumbled after a good pull on his cigarette. Smoke escaped as he spoke. “Them gettin’ shot at all the time like dat.”

Harry turned the glass of whiskey in his hand. The squarish glass felt comfortable and natural there. It fit nicely in his fingers. He lifted the glass to his lips, and the amber liquid slid smoothly down his throat. He gasped. It had been a long time since he last had a drink. A second swallow, and the glass was empty. Harry caught the bartender’s eye and pointed to his glass.

“Thank you, fine sir,” Harry said as the bartender decanted his bittersweet elixir. In two swallows, the second glass emptied. The anxiety was gone, the euphoria was back, and Harry was bulletproof once again.

“Do you think that’s going to help the situation?” Claire demanded from behind Harry.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, it does,” Harry exhaled as he turned, and Claire winced at the smell of whiskey.

“Well, forget about visiting her in the hospital. You can’t visit her with booze on your breath. Get out of here, Harry. Go home. Now.”

“Dear cousin, I am merely bracing myself against the cold, dark night.”

“Don’t come to the hospital. Stay away.”

Harry turned back to face the bartender, and pointed to his glass again. Claire spun on her heels and stomped out of the bar, mumbling epithets.

Harry looked down at his glass. He wiped a stray drop of moisture from his eye. Must have been irritated by Mick’s smoke. He picked up the glass, raised it in a toast to Mick, and the amber fluid disappeared in one swallow this time. Harry leaned back and gasped loudly, stretching his back as the bolt of lightening first burned, then more gently warmed him from the inside.