Table 9

I stare at the table in the corner of the room. Table 9. It’s a table of four. Every night, picturesque families of four, dashing couples on double dates, old retired mates come to table 9. Every night. I serve them food, I serve them drinks and I watch their souls rise, with every sip of alcohol, higher and higher like Peter Pan and Wendy… until I bring them down to Earth with the bill. 

‘Excuse me. Excuse me, could we have another bottle of champagne please.’

Now, why would I refuse. 

I deliver the champagne and they ask me to pour it. One of them elbows her friend in the ribs, whispering about how nervous I am. They don’t know that my hands are shaking because of the bottle I’ve already drunk, down in the basement. I’m 17 but I’m not nervous. I’m 17 and I’m an alcoholic. I pour the champagne and I walk away. 

Closing time comes and as predicted, table 9 is the last table on the floor. I stack chairs until the restaurant is a maze. They ask for the bill and I take it to them. I weave around the pillars of furniture pretending that I am Theseus and this is my labyrinth. I am pathetic. 

I deliver the bill and one of them shouts ‘Euphoria! Euphoria – that’s what you should be feeling young man. That’s what you should be feeling at the thought of spending all that money.’ I look at the tip. It’s generous. I walk away. 

Table 9 leaves and I clean it until it’s spick and span. I spray it, I wipe, I scrub at it until my hands are rough and my mind is empty, like it too has been erased of everything. Books, movies, love – they are marks on the table that must be erased. When I’m done, I shove table 9 into the corner because I can’t bear to hear the echoes of its laughter, see the silhouettes of the happy faces which linger, which always linger, even as the lights click off. I kick the table with my foot. Even then, the ghosts still laugh. 

The manager gives me the key and he walks away, not knowing that I’ll pilfer a bottle like I do every night. Chardonnay tonight. I yearn for it to burn the flesh of my throat and I beg the liquid to set me on fire and then drown me. It doesn’t disappoint. I slam the bottle down on the table. Table 9. 

I lock the door. The key clicks. A drunkard comes towards me. He smashes the bottle against the curb and a piece of the glass lands next to my shoe. He growls at me and grizzles something intelligible. I stare at him until he walks away; I stare at the bottle in pieces on the ground; I stare at the back of his head growing smaller with every step. It’s almost as if I know him. I walk away. 

(Shortlisted for the 500 word short story competition: Furious Fiction August 2023)