Screwdriver seems to be an ideal cocktail but not everybody shares this opinion. I got sucked into making one after reading an article in a magazine, one you wouldn’t touch if you weren’t sitting in barbershop, waiting for your turn. Screwdriver－two ingredients: long-awaited drunkenness and a mild state of euphoria, things that any of us need in certain situations. Also pain. Despair. Screams deep inside your soul. Breakups. Failure or success. Isn’t it true that you can always find the reason? And only two ingredients…

I mix them at the prom, trying to get my classmate drunk. Doesn’t work. She gets offended. Boxes my ears. Cries. I drink everything by myself. Morning. Head aches. Not as much so I used to hold the toilet bowl throwing up. I don’t work to drunk at all. And I don’t drink. For two years more. Then again, screwdriver. And again, she boxes my ears. This time it’s my girlfriend. Sonya. Her words. Tears. Nerves are going up. Screwdriver. And my head aches again. But Sonya left. There’s no one to hug and kiss. No one to think about but myself.

I start drinking again. And give up again. I don’t drink too much, only with Serezha. I had a habit of drinking once every two weeks. Meeting with friends. Women, current and soon to be exes. And it’s Friday again. Screwdriver. And once again, someone boxes my ears. And boxes one more time. A kiss. And we break up. In the morning Serezha comforts me. I feel so bad. It’s not about what I drank and what didn’t want to fit into the stomach. About feelings. Things I read about a thousand times. A train hits you. Everyone tried to describe it but none of them made a stink of it.

I’ve start feeling it again. Sitting at the wedding of my friends. The thing you feel when something that is the most important for you slipping away. When your lifelong love gets married. She’s twisting with her husband. They’re following the rhythms of the band. It’s good. But not as good as my screwdriver. I mix it in a little teapot, slowly filling in once-again-empty-tea-cup. I don’t want anybody to see myself drinking. Alone. I don’t want anybody to think of me. About what I must be feeling. This is the thing I don’t know－myself. Still, I’m okay. Just love slipping away to the unknown. Tags along the water. And then, I flush the toilet. None of what I’ve drank is on my white shirt. A little bit on my shoes. I’m leaving the wedding when guests are screaming: “Gorko!”And then I’m waking up again. Headache. And myself, swearing that I won’t drink again. And broke my promises again. Work. Home. Work. Home. Work. Home. Work. Home. I’ve followed such a rhythm for a few years. Thinking of nothing. Turning into a robot mixing a screwdriver just to get my pipes cleaned. Drink a little. Speak a little. On a date again. She sits directly opposite. Tries to be polite. Tender and quiet. Every day I’ve been catching her eyes on me. When she was standing on the stairs, jabbering about something by the phone at the end of working day.

What if I can finally fall in love with the girl just like I love a screwdriver? But I keep everything simple. Just ask her questions about family and education. Drink my cocktail. And then ask again. In the morning.

Why this night the Moon was so bright ?

She doesn’t know.

However, it’s not so important.

A kiss. The taste of last night on my lips. And taste of my screwdriver on hers.