The trio of friends, A, B, and C, stood outside a bar named Soup. It was a bustling Friday night for young letters, but A was spoiling the fun. She had run outside the bar and vomited in the bushes. C rubbed her back, trying to sober her up. B fidgeted with a hole in their coat pocket.
“Why did you let her get so drunk?” C cupped A’s chin and searched for consciousness in her glazed eyes.
“You can’t pin this all on me,” B said defensively. “When I was getting a drink, she snuck two hits from my pen.”
“Right,” C snapped. “After all, B stands for ‘bastard.'”
B bit their lip. They searched for something to say—something that would hurt.
“Well, what about you?” B retorted. “I thought you were going to stay sober tonight. We get in there and you order three doubles and a cider. You can never take responsibility—you always have to be the messy one for attention. C must be for ‘careless.’”
Letters and numbers began to trickle outside of the bar; some lingering to smoke, some stumbling home. The last call was shouted.
A focused heavily on suppressing the bubble of nausea rising to her throat.
“Please stop fighting, please,” A sobbed. “I needed this tonight. I don’t need to feel guilty about this. This isn’t about you two. You know how J fucked me over,” tears pulled flecks of mascara down her cheeks.
B gave C a sharp glance, but C was too busy looking out to the crowds, pouting at his misfortune of not continuing the night.
“I completely understand, A. I’ve been fucked over before too,” C looked to B.
B ripped the hole in their pocket fully, feeling September air bite their fingers.
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