If I'm being honest, I thought Clay would be drunk after three shots. Even the toughest drinkers get drunk after the fourth glass of whiskey.

However, Clay's on his fifth glass and still very much aware of his surroundings. At this point, I feel bad cause it feels like I'm just taking his money. What's the point of drinking if you don't get drunk?

"Your liver is screeching for help," I poured the sixth glass. I swear this is the last one I'm gonna pour.

"So is my soul, but nobody cares," he's fidgeting with the glass on the table, eyes focused on the sphere of ice spinning inside of it.

I'm tired of telling him that I do care and would actually love to listen and help. So I just sigh and watch him gulp down the whole thing like it's water.

He looks at my face and pushes the glass towards me. But I refuse to refill it. He's gonna die.

"C'mon.." his voice is deeper from all that alcohol.

"Do you want water?" I offer.

"I want a drink," he taps on the side of the glass.

"Enough drinks for you tonight," I shake my head. I can't even tell him to go back home cause I'm scared he won't make it. At this point, I'm hoping to keep him alcohol-free for four more hours until I finish my shift and take him home.

"I'm not drunk and I don't get drunk, what's your problem?" His speech is not even a bit slurred. I'm impressed.

"So what's the point of drinking then? Do you like the taste?" I'm confused.

"No, it makes me sleepy and I think less when I'm sleepy."

I want to offer him melatonin but then I decide against it in case he gets addicted and blames me.

And after two more shots, the only option I have left is to pull out one of my dummy bottles. I have bottles of whiskey, vodka, tequila- every common liquor you'd find in cocktails that look exactly like the real things but are watered down so much that they taste like weird water.

It's probably illegal, but when people are so wrecked that one more shot will make them throw up on me and they're demanding another one, I give them shots of water that taste a little bit like alcohol. Trust me, when they're that drunk, even air tastes like alcohol, they can't tell the difference.

I pull out the watered-down whiskey and pour a glass for Clay. I hope he can't tell the difference. His tastebuds should be burnt down by now.

He toys with the glass for a little while, waiting for the beverage to cool down. I try not to make it obvious that I'm waiting for him to take a sip. And he doesn't seem to care, he's too focused on the ice.

And that's when my phone buzzes.

Finally.

whats upp :]

I smile at the smiley.

is everything okay?

I quickly start typing. So what if I immediately opened his message and momentarily replied?

yeah

George💙: how's Clay?

I look at him; still playing with his glass.

Anastasia: idk im at work

I hope I'm doing the right thing.

George💙: his phone is turned off hope he's okay

Anastasia: he's probably asleep dw

I feel bad for lying but I don't want to ruin George's day. And I also don't know if Clay wants him to know, so it's none of my business.

I lock my phone and put it away when Clay looks at me. If I had a family, I think that's how my parents would look at me if I used my phone during a family dinner.

"Is your phone dead?" I ask.

He shrugs, "Probably."

I bite the inside of my cheek as he finally empties the glass. Now the funny thing is, he didn't flinch once when it was pure alcohol. Yet now I see his pulled-up nose and narrowed eyes and think that I did something and the placebo worked.

To my surprise, it was just disgust...

"What the fuck was this?" He cringes looking at the glass.

Okay, I messed up.

"Whiskey." I'm not lying. I'm just not sharing some of the details.

"Why does it taste like aquarium water?" I don't even want to ask how he knows what aquarium water tastes like.

"You probably let the ice melt too much," I shrug, "or you're tripping."

When he said he thinks less when he drinks, he didn't lie. I don't know how he bought that, but I'm happy that it worked. He was disgusted enough to not ask for another shot. Instead, I watched him rest his head on his arms.

I look around and see that there are not that many customers tonight. I think about it for a little while and decide to do it. I ask the other bartender to cover my shift. He's nice enough to agree.

At that moment I didn't know that it was one of the best decisions I ever made. What looked like a person resting their head on their arms, turned out to be a person that is passed out on the bar table.

"Clay?" I shake his shoulder again. No reaction.

Did he fucking die during my shift?

"Clay!" I shake him a little harder and finally see his eyelids fluttering open.

"What?" He looks at me through thick lashes.

"Were you asleep?" There's disbelief in my voice.

"No?" I think the alcohol is kicking in.

"Get up, we're going home," I instruct as if it was that easy for him to get up.

I have to watch mister "I don't get drunk" manage his balance for a minute after he stands up. Once he gets that problem sorted, I offer him my hand. It's probably a bad decision cause now if he falls, I'm going down with him.

But anyway, the universe was kind enough to give me the patience to drag him back home without any casualties. He was silent the whole time, would stop sometimes and lean against something cause his balance wasn't doing great at all. His hand was in mine the whole time and he was fidgeting with my ring. And I don't wanna talk about the times he would get distracted by something and start walking the wrong way. I had to drag him back to the right route.

And overall it felt like he wasn't drunk, he was confused. His speech was okay, his words weren't slurred, with all the struggle he was still walking better than any drunk person I know, and he hasn't thrown up yet.

We're home now. He's on his bed and I'm waiting for his bottle to fill cause I'm about to force him to drink like 5 of these. Knowing how dangerous it is, I'm scared of letting him sleep with that much alcohol circulating through his veins.

I enter the room after changing into something more comfortable and removing my makeup, "How are you? I brought you water."

Clay is on the bed hugging the blanket. I get closer and offer him the pillow but he pushes it away.

"I'm good," he speaks, "I don't want water, I want to sleep."

I sit right next to his body and look at his face. His cheeks are flushed and once pink lips are now so much rosier.

"One time my mom went to bed drunk, choked on her vomit, and almost died," I share one of my many traumas.

He looks at me for a few seconds to probably see if I was joking or not. The lack of expression on my face convinces him to sit up.

Yet he slumps back down and almost hits his head on the headboard. I said almost because I was quick enough to support his head with my hands. I lay him back down - this time putting his head on my thighs to have better control.

Taking off his beanie, I comb the matted hair back with my fingers to let his forehead cool down a bit. His skin is glistening, and when he looks up at me, so are his eyes.

Clay blinks a few times and mumbles, "I'm sorry."