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Saturday, February 2, 2013

Irish Coffee



Irish Coffee
Jessica Marie
T
he crystal glass sat directly in front of Claire. Foggy with a brownish hue, the drink looked appetizing with the whipped cream (complete with cinnamon or nutmeg) that sat on top of the scolding hot liquid. This would be the first time Claire was having Irish coffee.
Life had been different a year ago. She had money in the bank and men chased after her; Claire was svelte and eye candy with her long chocolate hair, powder white skin and amber eyes. Her favorite past time was shoo-shooing the guys away because Claire had what she needed in her grandma. It was in Claire’s experience that the men she attracted only wanted trysts and all she wanted was someone to love her for all that she was on the inside and outside. Grandma was the only best friend Claire had.
“Aren’t you going to drink your Irish coffee?” grandma asked.
“Yeah,” Claire responded. She had several Jack and cokes beforehand and that night she shelled out a grand on food and drinks.
“You know,” grandma had sounded concerned, you should really be careful of how much you spend.”
“Excuse me,” a guy of about 36 chimed in. He was obviously older than Claire, but she didn’t pay any mind. “May I?”
Claire smiled at her grandma and got up with her Irish coffee to go with this man that introduced himself as Joe.

That was the best Irish coffee she ever had at the King Manor Café. They lived up to the hype of being the best in La Crosse. It was a wild night for Claire that night.
“Baby, you know I love you.” He would always say to her after beating her. They hooked up that night in December, but Claire wasn’t sure why they became a couple.
“Here, here, here’s a thousand. Just please stop.” Claire begged.
She stood on trial a few months later—the gun just went off accidentally she had testified on the stand and fortunately with the help of her good lawyer, Claire was found innocent. The jury felt sorry for her, the battered victim. She felt sorry for herself too.
Grandma was diagnosed with cancer shortly after that. Not sure what to do, Claire went to Green Bay to “escape from this droll town. I need to start over,” she told grandma. “I understand, Claire,” and off she was to Green Bay.

She looked down at the Irish coffee in the dive bar near her grandma’s house. The funeral was a few days ago. This coffee was pitch black and it wreaked of whiskey.
“More whiskey, please,” Claire had nonchalantly asked the waitress. She needed something to take the edge off.  She needed to kill the loneliness; she had lost her only best friend. Claire was now alone in the world.
The waitress set the coffee back down on the table. Claire’s reflection looked back at her and all she saw was a girl that gained weight from a newly diagnosed health condition, someone who had lost the looks and couldn’t attract anyone to save her life. All Claire saw was the ghost of her grandma and the wretchedness of abandonment.


2 comments:

  1. It's certainly an interesting piece, with influences from recent experiences. I really hope that the part with Claire being abused never happened, though!

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    1. Nah. I'm trying to give it a Fitzgerald-esque feel. Namely this: http://gutenberg.net.au/fsf/BABYLON-REVISITED.html

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