Wild Strawberry Gin
Queenie had been watching the single man at the next table for a long time.
This was a rather charming bar. Queenie had already had two glasses of sparkling wine when the dark-haired, green-eyed man pushed open the door and walked in while she was slightly tipsy.
He looked to be in his mid-twenties, his black hair appearing messy and unkempt, yet strangely giving off a disheveled handsomeness. Just by looking at his hair, you might think he was an unruly person, but when you look into his lake-green eyes, you are drawn to his gentleness and melancholy—at least that lake envelops Queenie, and she insists that the shimmer in his eyes at that moment was not caused by the bar lights, nor by the reflection of the glasses on his nose.
The man sat in the seat in front of her, which was obvious, since it was the only empty seat left in the bar.
He seemed unfamiliar with the place. Even Queenie, who had only been here once with her ex-boyfriend, acted like a seasoned pro, but he hesitated and flipped through the drink menu, finally saying he'd just have a signature strong drink. Then he sat there obediently, glancing left at the couples kissing passionately in the corner of the bar—he only glanced at them before quickly turning his gaze away, embarrassed. Right at the neatly arranged, gleaming empty bottles on the wall shelf.
Like a kitten that has wandered into an unfamiliar area, alert yet curious.
Queenie sipped her sparkling wine while leaning on the table, squinting at him. The drink he ordered arrived, and he took a small, tentative sip, then showed a momentary expression of being burned by the spiciness. He slowly exhaled, pushed it away a little, then seemed to remember its price, picked it up again, and quickly finished the drink in fits and starts.
He's going to get drunk, Queenie thought. He doesn't look like a regular drinker; he's bound to get drunk if he drinks like this.
As expected, after a short while, the green lake water, like a summer downpour that comes and goes quickly, was soon covered with a humid and sultry mist, adding a touch of bewilderment to his melancholy and making her even more attracted.
Queenie seemed to be a regular here. She snapped her fingers and ordered the man a glass of sweet wild strawberry gin. She then sat down opposite him with her own glass of sparkling wine.
"Hello, cutie~"
"You are—uh, I mean, hello."
The man sat up a little straighter, but because a young woman was sitting next to him, his casualness, which had been aroused by drinking, subsided somewhat, and he became uneasy again.
Queenie smiled. "Don't be nervous. You're alone, and so am I. Maybe we can talk and have a drink together. You know, if there are things you can't tell your loved ones, then confiding in a stranger is a good way to go."
“Oh, you’re right…” He was clearly thinking of something he wouldn’t easily confide in someone close to him, even his hair seemed melancholic, making him appear less flamboyant. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name yet, you are—”
Queenie.
“Oh, okay, Queenie, my name is Harry.” He only gave his first name, as it’s common to give the full name when introducing oneself. He was probably not too happy that he didn’t get the other person’s surname, but Queenie only noticed his red lips, which uttered her name with a faint, intoxicating smell of alcohol.
For a fleeting moment, Queenie questioned herself: Had she really been this lecherous? She must have been too drunk, hadn't she?
But who cares?
Queenie's smile deepened, and she moved closer to Harry, extremely enthusiastic, "So what's troubling you? You can tell me."
“Oh, I—” Harry felt the heat emanating from her closeness and shifted his body awkwardly. He stammered for a moment without being able to say anything. Queenie thought he might be wary of her, which was normal, so she prepared to talk about herself first, “I just broke up today.” Queenie sighed sadly and took another sip of her drink.
"Uh, I... I'm sorry." Harry awkwardly pushed up his glasses.
“I’ve been with him for over a year, and just a few days ago I found out that he had been having an affair with my good friend—my former good friend.”
Harry was a little shocked, and he didn't know how to react. He imagined what it would be like if he and Cho were dating, and one day they found out that Ron had stolen his house. He would be furious.
"What angers me the most isn't that scumbag ex-boyfriend, but my good friend—my former best friend. How could she betray our friendship for a man? That scumbag's ability to do such a thing shows he has terrible character. She's after his looks? But he's not that handsome, at least not as handsome as you! I really don't know what she saw in him!"
"Uh, thanks." Harry thought about it again, and if it were true, he would indeed be angrier at Ron than at Cho.
“I slapped him in front of all my friends today, but I’m still really upset, so I came to the bar.” Queenie finished her sparkling wine and ordered herself a glass of wild strawberry gin. She propped her head up on her hand and leaned against the table, her moist, honey-colored eyes looking at Harry. “What about you? What happened to you?”
Harry took a swig of wild strawberry gin, which he quite liked. He licked his lips—a gesture that drew Queenie's gaze from his eyes to below his prominent nose. "The girl I liked—or perhaps 'having a crush' would be a better word? Her boyfriend was in the Triwizard Tournament with me—well, in a sport, and then…" Harry's green eyes darkened into a deep emerald green, ""just as we were about to win the tournament, he was—he died in an accident."
"Oh my God!" Queenie didn't ask what competition they were participating in. Maybe they were doing some extreme sports, which are prone to injury and death. She raised her hand and covered Harry's hand. "That's so unfortunate. You must be very sad."
Harry looked frustrated and pained. "I don't know how to face her. I think I should tell her the truth: if it weren't for me, he wouldn't have died!"
Oh, Queenie understands now. Maybe that person died because he saved Harry from drowning. Don't we often see stories like that in the news? Someone dies trying to save another person who has fallen into the water, while the person being saved survives.
Queenie opened her soft arms and hugged him. "Dear Harry, everything will be alright. Even if you tell her the truth, I don't think she'll blame you. It wasn't your fault."
Queenie didn't say anything more after that. She just kept patting his broad but slumped back with her warm hands. The warmth passed from the thin clothes to his skin, and Harry found comfort in the company of a stranger.
He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes—telling the story brought tears to his eyes—Queenie thought his movements were too rough, as two of his long, thick eyelashes were rubbed off.
"Oh Queenie, thank you. It's been almost a month, and it makes me feel better to talk about it." The alcohol was kicking in again, and Harry's sluggish mind made his voice hoarse. "I—I don't know how to thank you enough."
“If you really don’t know how to thank me—” Queenie blinked her honey-colored eyes, “do me a favor.”
"What kind of help?" Harry was a little confused. He thought they were helping each other out. But if the other needed help, he thought he would do his best to help.
"We're having our opening dance at the end of August. Would you be my dance partner if it's convenient for you?"
"A dance partner?" Harry's eyes widened again as he recalled the joyful Christmas ball six months ago.
“We’re in the same school—I mean, my ex-boyfriend, my former best friend, and I don’t want them to see me in such a miserable state at the dance. Can you help me?”
Harry was tempted to refuse, but when he met Queenie's pleading honey eyes, he found himself unable to say no.
"If that helps you—I mean, of course."
"Great!" Queenie laughed happily. "Could I have your phone number? We need to discuss outfits and practice dance moves so we can stay in touch."
"I'm sorry, I... I don't have a cell phone."
lie.
This was Queenie's first reaction. Even among students, cell phones are now commonplace. How could a man in his mid-twenties not have a cell phone?
reject.
This was Queenie's second thought; she felt that this was the only explanation.
But she rarely met someone so compatible, so she couldn't give up easily. She had pursued that scumbag ex-boyfriend for so long!
"What is your address?"
"Uh, I'm not comfortable saying that either."
"Then you have to leave me some kind of token, right? After all, we're just strangers who met by chance. What if you lie to me? I'll be so embarrassed if I don't have a dance partner!"
Harry frantically searched all his pockets, which were actually just his left and right pockets, but found nothing but money.
Queenie had obviously seen it too. Oh well, she thought, at least they had a drink together, and she had tried her best.
She lowered her eyelids in frustration, as if she had experienced two breakups on the same day. "Okay, I think we have to say goodbye. One last question, can you kiss—"
“Here, take this.” Harry placed a thin, long object into her palm, his tone solemn. “This is my most precious possession; it’s a token. See you tomorrow.”
Uh, a stick? He's really not just trying to coax her?
Looking at Harry's serious face, Queenie decided to foolishly believe him this once, since she had nothing to lose, right?
It was quite late, so Harry paid the bill for both of them. They left the bar, took the last bus, and went home separately.
Queenie clutched a ridiculous wooden stick, leaning her head against the bus window, gazing absently at the lit-up Tower of London. She was the first to leave; which bus did Harry take home? Wait—
Queenie's alcohol-numbed mind sluggishly realized that they seemed to have forgotten to agree on what time and where to meet tomorrow, and how to meet tomorrow?
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