By Susan McKever (Lonecat)
Photographer:Ian Britton
The ice cracked and clinked as the coke fizzed around it. A little spilled over the top of the glass. She didn't try to stop it. She just sat there, listening to the high-pitched cracks as the drink settled.
("I can't do this," her mind was screaming at her.)
How long was it now? Since she'd last had a glass like this in front of her? Must be quite a long time - she couldn't even remember the taste.
("Three years," her mind filled in.)
She leaned a little closer to the glass. She could smell it now, sickly sweet but with something all its own, something unlike any other drink. There was a kind of magic in this glass. Brown liquid surrounded by myth and legend. Once a tonic, laced with cocaine. An acid, corrosive of teeth and metal, dangerous in its syrup form. Loaded with sugar and caffeine, still a drug even without the cocaine. A contradiction; the drink of the cool, the icon of a generation, and yet adored by hidden ranks of programmers. The choice of the non-drinker, and yet served heavily laced with any of a row of spirits. The caffeine and sugar drink, but available without either. And still its secrets remained. The secret formula, the secret ingredients, meaning it would always stay one step ahead of its rivals, always be the original, always be the best.
("And always the same.")
She'd sat looking at a glass like this once. Sitting in a quiet pub, waiting for him. Not really wanting a drink, but feeling obliged to buy something to justify her presence. He was late, of course. She expected that. She'd waited twenty minutes now. Where was he? Maybe he'd got delayed? He was always late, but never more than fifteen minutes. Was that true? Was her memory playing tricks on her?
("No trick. Never more than fifteen.")
So he was late. She was getting nervous. Alone in an unfamiliar pub, with no idea how long she would be there waiting. Nothing but a glass of coke for company. She'd lent over and sniffed at it that day as well, but just as something to do. It was just a drink then, her choice when she was short of cash. Another glance at the clock. Half an hour now. Where was he? She picked up the glass, shivering a little from the cold touch, and raised it to her lips.
("You don't have to do this. You don't need this memory.")
She never tasted it. She put the glass down suddenly, spilling sticky coke over the already sticky table. There he was at the door. He glanced round the room, and eventually spotted her. A moment later he was sitting opposite her.
("Stop. Please. It won't do any good.")
He sat and talked. Not for long. With a few brief words he tore her world apart. She had believed in him. Her happiness was in his hands. Since she first set eyes on him she had lived only to please him. And there he was, telling her it wasn't enough, that she wasn't what he wanted. She hadn't cried, hadn't made a single sound as he ripped out her heart. She felt paralysed. Something was missing from her brain, it seemed. He stopped talking, then stood up, said a blunt goodbye. She remained sitting. She had thought of getting up, bursting into tears, screaming at him, throwing things at him in a rage, collapsing sobbing on the floor, all in those few seconds as he walked to the door.
("But you didn't.")
He vanished from sight, and she unfroze. Her world lay shattered around her. She felt a dreadful aching hollow inside her. Instinctively she reached for the glass. Half an hour in a warm pub had taken away some of the chill, but it was still cold. She remembered the feel of the bubbles on her upper lip, the taste spreading across her tongue. A single swallow, and suddenly her stomach heaved. She knocked over the glass, soaking the table and scattering ice cubes across the floor as she ran for the door. She heard the crack of ice under her shoes, stumbled, but regained her balance, and she was out of the door before her stomach finally forced its contents up into an ugly splash across the asphalt.
("So why are you doing this?")
Three years since that day, and here she was once more in front of a glass of coke. She didn't even know why. Waiting alone in a pub, but she could have ordered something else. The occasional plink still came from the ice. The glass was frosted with condensation. Perhaps a sense of inevitability. She'd made the same mistake again - put her happiness in someone else's hands. He'd arranged to meet her here. He said he might be a few minutes late, told her to get herself a coke or something. So she did. And now it was half an hour. It seemed like a kind of spell as she lifted the glass to her lips. She could feel hot tears brimming in her eyes. He still wasn't here.
("I can't do this.")
She held the glass to her lips, not daring to let the liquid touch her. Then suddenly she found herself with a mouthful of it. It was horrible, disgustingly sweet. She spat half of it over the table in surprise. He was standing beside her, bending down to kiss her. Calling her darling, apologising for being late, telling her how much he'd missed her.
"Are you okay? Is there something wrong?"
And suddenly tears were streaming down her face, and his arms were around her, leading her outside. Slapping her back as she coughed and choked.
"What's wrong? Bubbles gone down the wrong way?"
She smiled even through the choking.
("And the cracks close up.")
The glass of coke stood intact on the table. One of the staff picked it up, wondered why it hadn't been drunk, then tipped the contents down the sink. She dumped the glass in the dishwasher and listened to the sounds from the sink as the coke fizzed and the ice cracked.