The Drink

Entering the house, i peel off my red jacket, tossing it in the corner. Greeting the others with a smile and a nod, i am ushered forward as the general throng collects in the centre of the room, the music playing and people try to sing along. In a slight haze, i attempt to join in, the words mindlessly flowing from my lips as i feel a coolness against my sweating palm, a bottle finding its way between my fingertips. My mind wanders back to earlier that week:

Walking back from climbing, the cold breeze biting into my calves, we head to tea. 

'You were so lucky', she says.'You barely clung to that hold.

Smirking, i retort,' There's no such thing as luck.'

'There is such a thing as luck; don't you feel lucky every morning you wake up, alive and in one piece' 

I turn and look her directly in the eyes, considering to lie for a second, emulate some empathy, chuckle and say of course. But the question burrows to my core, and the truth escapes its cage. 

'No. I'm rather indifferent. Maybe i'll wake up tomorrow, maybe i won't.'

She glances at me, saying something, though i'm not quite sure what. I just nod, moving to catch up with the others, returning the truths to it's restraints. 

I blink twice, someone gripping my shoulder, asking if i'm having a good time. I nod and smile, bringing the drink to my lips. The bitter taste fills my mouth, slushing down my throat, as i take a gulp, and then another. Maybe i'd wake up tomorrow, maybe i wouldn't. I chuckle to myself; that's tomorrow's problem.