Saturday's Storyteller: "The ice shocked her tongue into submission..."

by Belinda Roddie

The ice shocked her tongue into submission, and her mouth instantly numbed before she could set the glass down. All sorts of flavors tackled her sinuses once she could feel her teeth and lips again: Mint, chocolate, strawberry, anise, all tastes she didn't expect from the cocktail. It left her rattled, shaken just like the various cups of booze poured out like witch's brew for the greedy patrons. She needed to sit down before the vertigo punched her harder in the head than the alcohol already did.

She hadn't had this strong of a drink in years. The highball in her hand refused to heat up despite her grip; the frost collected around the brim, as if oblivious to the stifling atmosphere of the bar. Not even the sweat staining the backs of shirts as people danced to the DJ's lousy playlist was enough of a signal for the glass to stop being so cold in her hand. She let her spare palm slide down the right side of her face, tracing a map along her cheek and jaw. Her skin was cold, too. Cold as ice.

Molly thought about a song then, in Gaelic, one she had tried to learn how to sing but could never master. "An Bairille" played loudly in her skull, all guitar and penny whistles, while the continual swirl of Irish words enticed her to hum it. She felt her body sway from side to side on her stool, her eyes barely making contact with any one spot in the room - or person. The repetition in her head was enough to keep her cerebral dance going.

I would make my way to the two bottoms, the two bottoms,

I would make my way to the two bottoms of two barrels

She wanted another drink, but she wasn't done with her first. The bartender was beautiful and had black hair. He sidled over to her, his thin fingers following their own choreography. Stubble glinted on his chin like pebbles scattered on a pale sea.

I'd drink my way to the bottom twice,

two glasses on the table and two noggins

The woman beside her was beautiful, too. She was blonde, tall, nursing a martini and being careful not to smudge her pink lipstick. Her eyes were so green that not even emeralds could rival the sheen. Molly wondered where the woman came from, why she was here. Whether or not she was just as cold to the touch. She wasn't sure what to make of any of the sipping shadows here. Molly took another sip of her drink. Mint and chocolate and strawberry and anise.

I would make my way to the three bottoms, the three bottoms,

I would make my way to the three bottoms of three barrels

She was not going to be able to walk home after this. The last time she had had this strong of a drink, she was eighteen years old, going to university in Dublin and attempting to woo a visiting Bostonian boy with red hair. His last name was Murphy, too - for fuck's sake. They stayed in a hostel together with two other friends. They drank vodka and Sprite. She got drunk for the first time just a few steps away from Grafton Street. She vomited violently due to said drunkenness for the first time that night, too. Murphy didn't like being touched. Why didn't he want to be touched?

Vodka and Sprite didn't taste like much, in the end. But this drink did. Molly wanted to ask again what the bartender had put in it. But when she tried, her tongue was paralyzed again. Speech was never exactly her strong suit, anyway.

Avoid women and drinks

Always avoid such things

The song wouldn't stop playing in her head. She knew the three bottoms of three barrels would become four, ultimately. Four glasses and four noggins. Noggins were cups back then. Not heads. Both noggins could hold water and fluids easily. How much was Molly filling her head with liquid nonsense at this very moment.

"Excuse me?"

Words at last. The bartender smiled at her. His eyes were as black as his hair. Never ending tunnels of silenced cosmos.

"What did you put in this drink again?"

"Don't ask me that," he replied. "I never tell."

Five bottoms of five barrels. Five glasses and five noggins. Five times. Five times.

"When does your shift end?"

He was speaking in Gaelic. The blonde woman with emerald eyes had finished her martini. She slipped her hand across the counter and dropped green cash. Then her fingers wandered to Molly's waist. It held the flesh tenderly there. It held the flesh that piled up around her hips.

"I know what he puts in those drinks," she whispered to her.

Molly was numb again. "What?"

"You ever seen vertigo put in a blender?"

"...Is vertigo supposed to taste like licorice?"

The woman grinned. "We all taste like licorice here, love."

Whatever happened to avoiding women and drinks? She remembered Murphy again. His red curls. His gray scally cap. He had tried so hard. Tried so very hard to be Irish.

The DJ was done for the night. But the patrons kept dancing. Molly felt cold everywhere, except for the one hip the woman was touching. In that one spot was perfect warmth.

She downed her drink in two more swallows.

This was the bottom of Molly's barrel.

This week's prompt was provided by Arden Roddie. The story was also inspired by the song, "An Bairille" - specifically, the rendition performed by Muireann Nic Amhlaoibh and Julie Fowlis.