Margot sipped idly on her scotch, heaving an overly dramatic sigh with such practiced effort that she almost stopped to congratulate herself on the intensity. She took her seat at the back, waved the drifting smoke from her face and focused the last of her attention on the stage.
Open mic night was always the worst, she thought. Only a bunch of degenerate losers who thought they had talent completely embarrassing themselves in public. Well, a drunkened audience who couldn’t possibly distinguish talent sober or not…Margot dared herself not to heave another one of her famous Scarlett O’Hara sighs.
A man in a skin tight sequin leotard, finished a very rigorous interpretive dance and bowed. Margot gave out a “Hmphh,” accompanied by a sneer obvious enough for other patrons to acknowledge. Judging by the stares she recieved, she knew she was becoming, very drunk.
Then the spotlight hit him…he was nervous, the typical case. But then he began to speak, and Margot couldn’t conjure a sigh.
He pulled nervously on the collar of his white button down shirt that he looked very out of place in and cleared his throat.
“You know what I hate?” he began, “Eighties music, I just can’t bloody stand it! Any time I hear Peter Gabriel I just want to blow chunks. Alright, don’t get me wrong here, I don’t hate all eighties music, just the popular stuff. Give me a little Husker Du, I’m good. But none of that other shit…”
He paused for a moment. People in the audience murmered comments, a few that Margot caught, such as “What’s this guy’s deal?” or “Where’s that dancer?” Margot glared at them, and sat on the edge of her seat waiting for the man’s next move.
He shook his floppy brown hair out of his eyes and let out a deep cry from within and jumped up and down and let out a very passionate cover of The Pixies “Where is My Mind?”
And at that very moment, perhaps guided by the scotch in her system, Margot fell in love.
He finished the song, but nobody in the audience clapped for him except for Margot. Everyone turned to stare at her, so with all her drunken might, she stood up, and kept applauding him. The man on the stage glanced at her, then made a face that implied he was going to be sick.
He covered his mouth and ran off the stage. A few people laughed and sneered. Margot stood there dumbfounded, still clapping. Before anyone had the chance to turn and comment on her, she was grabbing her purse and running towards the restroom.
She stood meekly outside the door, bracing herself against the wall. Margot could hear violent puking sounds on the other side, and it didn’t sound pretty.
She knocked lightly, “You okay in there?” Her only response was another vigorous vomiting splash into the toilet bowl followed by a low groan and a flush.
“You okay?” she tried again.
“I’m a little to biased to answer that one right now,” he replied from the bathroom.
“Well,” Margot began, “if its any consolation…I really really liked your performance. Well, compared to everything else out there. You were like my own personal Bob Dylan serenading the masses out there…”
There was another rapid vomitting noise followed by a second flush of the toilet.
“Don’t drag Dylan into this,” he mumbled from the other side of the door. He began to groan. Margot knocked lightly.
“Can I get you something? Some water? A magazine? I think I saw an issue of Italian Maxim floating around by the bar…I mean, If you’re going to be in there awhile you should have some reading material…or..you know…” She waited patiently for a response. The water came on in the bathroom.
“Are you still standing out there?” He called out.
“Uh, yeah,” Margot responded.
The water turned off. “I’m coming out now.”
He opened the door, and stepped out towards Margot. She smiled at him expectantly…and he threw up on her shoes.
“I didn’t think you had anything left in you,” she said.
Margot froze, vomit dripping down the cheap red vinyl on her heels. He froze with her, a look of utter shock and embarrassment plastered onto his face.
“I’m so…” he started.
“No, really its okay. Really,” Margot insisted, “Here, let me help you.” She reached out to steady him as he swayed, dizzy and green-faced. He stumbled and they fell backward together into the wall of the hallway, his face landing right into her neckline.
“I swear I didn’t have anything to drink,” he mumbled into her dress as he caught himself. Margot assisted him as he finally came to, standing upright.
“Did I crush you?” He asked politely.
“Are you sure there isn’t a flask of sangria hidden somewhere in your pants? You smell all fruity and alcoholic…” Margot asked.
“No! Of course there isn’t. I didn’t want to come out smelling like vomit so I swiped the can of air freshner in the bathroom…Is it that obvious?” He said, looking down at himself, disgusted. Margot laughed, then sighed down at her vomit covered shoes.