Art Speaks [FICTION]

Being the designated driver has its perks. No hangover will turn your head into a boom box the following morning. Beer goggles don’t inhibit good choices when strangers try to win you over. And with my friends, I am guaranteed an amusing night. Their silliness and the amount of alcohol are directly proportional. 

Tonight, they choose to remind me of the downside of being the designated driver. The drunker they get, the longer they want to stay out. Their silliness also reaches its peak and an angry girlfriend confronts Betty over flirting she doesn’t consider harmless. I step between them before Betty can respond with drunken logic. The girlfriend rewards me with a slap to the face.

“Get your own boyfriend, tramps.” She fires over her shoulder before returning to her man.

He shrugs his enormous shoulders in our direction and leans down. Presumably, he whispers sweet apologies because she stands on her tiptoes to plant a sloppy kiss on his lips.

Betty snickers, “That might be the only way he can get that cold fish to kiss him.”

Before she can elaborate on the thoughts chasing through her foggy mind, I play the one card left to a designated driver when her friends reach the point of no return.

“Okay, ladies, my car is leaving in five minutes. Be in it or pay for a ride home.” 

I ignore the onslaught of pleading that ensues. Ten minutes later, we finally pull out of the bar’s parking lot. Despite their reluctance, all three of my friends sigh with relief as they slip off their heels to air out their feet. I roll down my window so I can breath.

I leave it down as I escort the last friend to her door. She showers me with drunken kisses and gratitude before stumbling through her door. I try the knob to satisfy myself that she is safely inside before returning to my car. 

I decide that letting the cool breeze continue to blow over me will keep me awake, so the window stays down. By the time I get home, the smell of sweaty dancing feet no longer assails my nostrils.

I roll up the window and head for the door. Drowsiness and high heels cause me to stumble almost as much as my friends. My balance returns when I close my door and slip off my shoes. I turn to face my living room, pondering whether I have the energy to make it up the short flight of stairs to my loft bedroom. The couch almost seems to beckon me into its overstuffed embrace.

As I take a few lazy steps toward it, voices come at me from the wall next to my head. I turn to look at the three small flower prints my mother bought to brighten up that wall. A purple pansy blinks at me before looking down and to the right where a white carnation tilts its petals upward expectantly.

A faux British accent comments, “She’s stumbling an awful lot for a designated driver now idn’t she?”

The soft voice one would expect from an aging patroness of the arts replies, “Maybe she finally gained an appreciation for the fermented grain and gave up that duty.”

The yellow rose lets out an unexpected guffaw and adds his thoughts in a rough voice. “Naw. Then she might be fun.”

As the flowers laugh, I begin to wonder if someone slipped something into my water. Unable to recall a moment when I wasn’t watching my glass vigilantly, my only solution is lack of sleep. I retreat from the giggling flowers into my bedroom.

I close the door behind but still hear them talking and laughing. I sigh and lean against the door bolstering my energy for one final plunge toward my bed. In the soft glow of the nightlight in my tiny bathroom, my eyes light on the unicorn painting over my bed. Bright blue eyes regard me sympathetically as I struggle to free myself from my bar attire.

“Why do humans insist on wearing those things?” The unicorn asks as I finally disengage the hooks in the back of my bra.

“Not you, too,” I groan, sliding into bed with alacrity as a sudden wave of modesty hits me.

“Seriously, do you see us covering our lovely fur and hair in fabric and dye and metal just to find a mate?” He asks gently, but I still feel compelled to defend my whole species.

“Don’t you knock each other around to find a mate?”

“Yes. That shows how worthy our genetics are to be passed on. What did your clothes show?”

I look in the direction of my pile of discarded coverings. I can’t see the light, long-sleeved sweater or black jeans, but I know they kept most guys from showing me interest all night. I grin but don’t respond.

“So glad you concede my point,” the unicorn whinnies happily.

“Sure. If it means I can sleep.”

“Ah, yes. You were out a bit late, weren’t you?”

“Really? I let you live on my walls and you all judge me.”

“Please don’t lump me in with those silly flowers. I just meant you need your sleep.” He began softly singing a lullaby in a language unknown yet somehow familiar.

The soft song and my long night ushered me swiftly into sleep.

—

Morning brought a headache as my alarm went off earlier than my body felt was necessary. I rolled over to hit the snooze button and landed on my bottom. I squealed as my bare skin connected with cold wood. Memories of conversations with my art flooded back to my mind. I looked up at the unicorn who looked down at me as he always had. 

“What a trippy dream. I have to set a curfew on my designated driver duties,” I declare to the empty room.

Then I glance up at the unicorn and he winks.