Anushree Rayarikar
The curb was rough, gritty under my torn black jeans. I sat right by the edge of the sidewalk, with my knees hugged in as close to me as I could, to fight back against the wind. It wasn’t actually that cold, but when a gust of wind blew past me, brushing my hair out of my face, feeling cool against the sweat that was stuck to my skin, it made me shiver. Despite feeling cold, exhausted, and wanting to rip my sweat-soaked clothes off and hop into a steaming hot shower, I was happy. It was the first night in weeks that I hadn’t even thought of him.
It turns out that the cure for heartbreak is stuffing a bag with the essentials – a flimsy maroon crop top, ripped black jeans, a toothbrush, and a bottle of Bacardi – and hopping on the next available bus out of town. Of course, my journey didn’t take me but 40 minutes down the road to the next college town where my four hometown best friends all lived together in a cramped cozy apartment. I showed up at their door practically unannounced, on the verge of tears, and all I could make out was a meek little “hey” before the salty waterfall made its way down my bare face. Salty tears turned into salt, tequila, and lime, and the rest was history. After listening to The Box by Roddy Rich about seven million times, I put on my modern-day ball gown and got ready to drink the same exact thing in a crowded bar for four times the price.
How is it, that over a year later, when I think back to that night, what I remember most isn’t the drinks, the bar, or even the people, but sitting on that curb, waiting for my friends to walk back from the hot dog stand down the street? I remember there being a neon orange sign above the bar across the street from the curb where I sat, with an aggressive “Monday $3 White Claws” on the marquee right below it. The orange glow, simultaneously soft and harsh, lighting up my face, making bright orange circles in my dark brown eyes. I remember the light din that always exists at 2 am in the streets of a college town, right after the bars turn their jarring white lights back on to expose the petri dish of strewn-about plastic cups, hair ties, and wristbands all swimming in a thin layer of miscellaneous liquid. I remember bouncers in bright pink shirts that read “Bouncer” (how trite) ushering the drunk masses out into the streets, making them someone else’s problem. I remember seeing and hearing everything, but somehow feeling removed from it at the same time – like I was watching a scene from a movie, rather than being an extra in the film. I remember sitting there quietly, tucked into myself, with the goofiest smile on my face. I remember thinking a million different things while also thinking nothing at all. I remember feeling happy.