My Cardboard Balcony

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 ...

I wanted to smoke one of my cigarettes, but I didn't have a lighter. I wanted to drink a pint at the bar, but I didn't have enough cash for a tip. I wanted to get high on the street corner, but the cops were out in full force today. I wanted to substitute the weed with painkillers, but all I had at home was three ibuprofen tablets. I wanted to just cook my brain with television, but I hadn't had cable in years. So I just stared absent-mindedly at my cellphone instead.