A Beer and A Bitch

[TW: Substance abuse and profanity]



Despite the darkness of night covering Copenhagen like a thin blanket, the city did not lie dormant. Big metal hearts and long chains lit up the streets, revealing people’s red noses and smiles as they pranced around. Sara marched hastily past the crowd. Her pulse pounded in her ears; the only rhythm in all her hectic thoughts. The eyes were glued to the phone in her hands. The cold bit her slender fingers pink, but her knuckles remained white as she clutched the phone. On the screen was a route navigating her through it all. Finally, she came to Studiestræde, where only a few lights from bar windows illuminated the black brick walls. She ran over to the bar, Masken, where a guard stood outside the door. He smelled pleasantly of cigarettes, which mismatched his unpleasant grimace. Sara forced the friendliest smile she could muster at the time: “May I come in?”

The guard: “ID.”

Sara: “Please, I’m not going to drink, I’ll be in and out in no time.”

Guard: “No ID, no entrance.”

Sweat on her forehead froze to ice in the wind. Sara returned to her phone to text mom. And as her lungs inhaled one deep breath, she held it while typing: “I forgot my ID, can you find my passport and send me a picture of it?”

Her mom did as asked and sent a picture of Sara's passport. Apparently, that wasn't good enough for the guard and Sara had to download her health insurance card so he could have a look at both. Finally, he let her in.

Sara darted through the entrance, but before she could feel the radiators heat, a man shouted: “Go away you crazy bitch!” All the air her lungs had been holding like two balloons, all of it was punctured into one word: “Shit!”

At the bar stood Emma towering over a trembling man, laying on the floor beneath the tall girl. With foam out of her mouth, Emma snarled at the man. A whole crowd of drunk people stared at the spectacle in the corner of the room. Sara weaved her way through the small blockade of spectators so she stood a few meters in front of Emma.

“Emma, please, let’s go.”

Emma gave her a look that could burn down a city: “Fuck off Sara!”

Sara’s blue eyes met the dark brown ones, not with hate or anger in them, just disappointment. The kind of disappointment that planted sadness and hopelessness in a garden. Emma let her eyes wander to the fat sack on the floor. The blood dripping from his nose contrasted with his winter-white skin. Then at her knuckles, all painted scarlet. Emma walked passed Sara, pushed her way through the crowd and exited the place. Everyone’s attention either turned to the door or back to their alcohol. Some laughed nervously at what had happened, others started talking about it as if a murderer was loose. Sara put a hand on her heart; it was the only band-aid she had for the weeping organ. A small breath was freed and she left too.

When stepping back out into the cold, she saw Emma standing there texting on her phone. Sara spread her nicest smile again and called out: “Emma!”

Emma glanced back with the same sour face as before. With her fuck finger out, she turned around and started trudging down the street. Sara had to gallop up to reach her: “Wait!”

Emma: “Leave me alone.”

Sara: “Can’t we just talk?”

Emma: “Can’t you just fuck off?”

Sara: “I’m worried about you!”

Emma: “Good for you.”

Sara opened her mouth to say more, but one of her snow boots got in front of the other and she fell. The left leg scraped the asphalt.

Emma stopped: “Sara! Are you okay?”

Sara sat down on the road and pulled up her pant leg to see some rosy lines: “It’s okay, it’s just a scratch.”

Emma reached out her hand to help her up and Sara took it. Emma’s hand was nice, soft and strong. When Sara stood up, she couldn’t quite put weight on her left leg.

Emma: “Can you walk?”

Sara: “Yes, I think so.” Taking a step, left leg first, she felt a jolt through her leg. But as she always did, she bit her cheek and continued to approach Emma with faltering steps. Emma just stood there. Sara was now millimeters away and their breaths mingled together in a single cloud.

Sara: “See!”

Emma shook her head and rolled her eyes: “Come here.” With her back turned, she grabbed Sara’s legs and pulled the smaller girl up, piggyback style. Sara instinctively grabbed Emma's neck, bringing the warm hair to her face. Normally, people wouldn’t want someone else’s hair in their face, but something about the nice smell and the warmth made her feel safe. Then they started jogging off through the dark street.

Sara: “Where are we going?”

Emma: “To the grocery store, they probably have Band-Aids.”

Both went silent after that. They continued like this for a few minutes. The pace slowed to a walk, but the grip remained sturdy. It felt like she could sit there safely forever, close to Emma.

Sara: “When we get to the grocery store, I’m going to buy some cigarettes.”

Emma: “You really need to stop smoking at some point, it’s not good for your lungs.”

Sara: “Says the alcoholic.”

Emma: “At least I know I have an addiction, and I’m trying to turn away from it. I’ve been sober for three months now.”

Sara lost her voice. Three months of work, lost. That feeling of disappointment flooded everything again and began to water the sadness. Emma must have sensed it, because she whispered: “I’m sorry I went out for a drink.”

Sara: “Is it because of your parents again?”

Emma: “I wish I could say yes, but in reality I don’t know. The Christmas dispute was probably just an excuse to drink and get into a fist fight.”

Sara didn’t say anything, because what do you say in that moment?

Emma continued: “My parents don’t understand why I continue to drink and demand an answer, but I barely know it myself. I don’t know why I’m an alcoholic. I don’t know why I am the way that I am.”

Sara: “You are not a bitch, if that’s what you think.”

Emma: “Thank you.”

Sara tried to get a look at her face but couldn’t see it for the hair. She gently ran her fingers through it and tucked it behind Emma’s ear.

When Emma looked back, Sara could see her reflection in her eyes. They saw each other for the first time that night. They saw each other for the first time in a long time.