DEBORAH'S POV
The bar's dim lights flickered, casting shadows across the sticky countertop. I traced my finger along the rim of an empty glass, the faint taste of bourbon still lingering on my tongue. The clock on the wall read 2:15 PM, but time seemed irrelevant in this hazy sanctuary.
A memory surfaced, unbidden and sharp:
Mom's perfume mingled with the acrid scent of wine as she stumbled towards me, her eyes glassy and unfocused.
"Deborah, do I look happy?" she slurred, swaying slightly.
My tiny hands trembled as I nodded, afraid to contradict her.
She laughed, the sound harsh and brittle. "Of course I look happy," she said, shoving her half-empty glass into my grasp. The liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim as she staggered to the wine rack.
