By DIANE KIM
The customer in front of Clare speaks, but she isn’t listening. Though her body is facing him, leaning on the counter right in front of him, Clare’s mind is elsewhere.
Sure, her eyes see the dingy bar around her. They see the low lights of the room and the pale, gray sky outside.
Sure, her ears hear the conversations around her, the occasional shouts of sports enthusiasts as their teams score a goal on the television.
Sure, her fingertips feel the smooth wood of the bar against her skin, the moist leftover condensation on the countertops from beer mugs.
But even though her senses are awake and aware, Clare’s mind is elsewhere.
Or maybe, Clare thinks, it is nowhere.
The customer speaks once more to Clare, a bit impatiently this time. “Ma’am. Can I have a Bloody Mary?”
Clare’s eyes meet the customer’s, and she isn’t surprised when he visibly recoils. She understands why; she does the same thing every morning when she looks in the mirror. At least, she had been until gradually with time, she got used to the Clare she saw everyday. She got used to the unkempt, frizzy brown hair that she never bothered to brush anymore. She got used to the dry, cracked lips that were drained of color, more of a starchy beige than pink. And eventually, she even got used to her eyes. They were the hardest things to grow used to, to learn to not flinch at, because in the beginning, Clare would compare them to how they were before. They used to be warm, expressive, and open, like the soft brown of tree leaves in autumn before they fall. They shifted to sad, weary, and sullen, which was hard to look at because it made Clare even more sad, weary, and sullen. One day, Clare looked in the mirror in the morning as she got ready for work, and realized that it was no longer hard to stare herself in the eyes, because there was no longer anything to look at. There was not sadness, nor warmth, nor openness, nor weariness.
They were empty.
There was nothing.
And with the absence of emotion, of life, from Clare’s eyes, came the severance of the connection between Clare’s body and mind. She no longer felt the things her body felt in her mind. Her mind was always somewhere else. Or, nowhere.
Like right now. The customer speaks after getting over his initial shock at seeing Clare’s eyes, and says, “Hey. Ma’am. Can you get me one Bloody Mary?”
Clare doesn’t nod or speak to acknowledge him. She just turns away from the counter to prepare the ingredients for the drink, one that she has made many times before as a barista.
Clare used to hate making this drink. It is spicy and hot, two adjectives that should not be used to describe an alcoholic beverage. The base includes hot sauce and horseradish, creating a salty, peppery taste. The garnish consists of olives and celery sticks and citrus fruits, all fruits and vegetables Clare used to hate for their pungent nature.
But now, Clare doesn’t care.
As she makes the drink, she is like an automaton. She does not think. She does not feel. She only moves her body.
She pours a handful of celery salt onto a small flat plate and rolls around the pint glass’s edge (which she covered with lime and lemon juice). She then squeezes the rest of the lemon and lime into the shaker, digging in her fingers so hard that they leave imprints in the skin of the fruit.
She then adds vodka, tomato juice, and horseradish. Then the hot sauce, Worcestershire sauce, and some black pepper and paprika. Then, she sprinkles in just a hint of celery salt and shakes.
She grabs the glass and pours the finished mixture into it.
Clare turns from her workstation, finished with her task. She moves to hand it to her customer, placing it in front of him on the counter. It is red.
Then, she flinches.
Because the customer has begun to scream.
Clare blinks.
The man screams and screams. He points his finger at…what? Clare? Her hand? Why?
Clare looks down at her hand. She sees red on her hand. She doesn’t understand why this is a problem. The Bloody Mary drink is red. A little bit of it got onto her hand. There should not be a problem.
The customer who ordered the Bloody Mary is not the only one screaming anymore. Now, practically everyone in the bar is screaming and pointing at her.
Clare lifts her hand.
Then, she realizes she didn’t actually, because where her hand used to be, this is now nothing.
Her eyes shift to the pint glass. Oh. There it is. Her hand.
Her eyes shift to her other hand, the one that is still attached to her body. Oh. It’s holding a knife that she used to cut her lemons and limes. And it’s red. Not from the drink. But from her blood.
Oh.
But even with the entire bar screaming, running, and hysterical, Clare feels nothing.
Writer | Diane Kim ’29| ddkim29@amherst.edu
Editor | Annika Liss ’29 | aliss29@amherst.edu