Drinking & driving
Liz blew on her drink. She imagined it was the spark that would, with enough breath and oxygen, ignite and engulf her whole life in flames. Flames that could illuminate, reshape, and energize the reality that Liz currently called life. This was a lot to ask from a whiskey sour on the rocks. Perhaps it was an fantastical hope, but as far as crazy wishes go, a scotch burning someone's life down was only slightly less insane than the wild fantasies of the older gentleman across the bar that bought Liz the drink. He seemed to be a kind enough old man, and she sensed that his gift was more peace offering than courtship, but a crazy old man nonetheless. As way of thank you, she glared at him with ever so slightly less boredom than before.
Boredom. Boredom boredom boredom. Makes people act irrational, like blowing on a cold drink. Boredom typically exists in the space between activities. Bus stations, for example, tend to be very boring places. Laser tag arenas have a tendency towards the opposite. Highways can go either way; driving down long sections of highway is instantly more interesting if you're in the wrong lane. Liz was in the wrong lane, metaphorically speaking. She came to her literal senses while sitting behind the drink that was allegorically the steering wheel.
"Another one, please"
"Another double or another single?"
"Just a single"
The old man might be able to buy her more drinks, if she played her cards right, though no one in the world could stop her from buying her own. She knew she shouldn't drink and drive, but she also knew that metaphorically driving her life down the drain didn't technically count.
"Changed my mind, make it a double"
It's not like anyone was going to stop her. No one could stop her from driving a stake through her own heart, and no one could stop her from driving her head through the wall in her kitchen. It was her life, and she'd damn well drink herself dead if she pleased. What was anybody going to do if she got too drunk anyways, call a cab? She lived two blocks away. If only she could call a cab that would take her brain to some far off land. Then she could truly relax. Kick her feet up on the bar (metaphorically speaking, that is. In reality the bar was too high to rest your feet on without tipping over the cheap barstool). She'd sip her double scotch slowly, without being bothered by thinking and all that nonsense. Now that's relaxation.