Commiseration

A bartender asking what you want to drink shouldn’t be an existential crisis, but everything is today, so why should it be an exception, right? Jeannie’s ears fold back into her uncombed grey hair, and the vixen rubs her eyes, as if she could hold back another round of tears with massage. “I don’t…bourbon, something like a…what’s it…”

“Boulevardier,” someone says as they sit down next to her. The pronunciation’s French, but the lilt is Irish or Scottish.

“I don’t know…what that is.” She looks over at the speaker. And up. A young rabbit or hare woman, gorgeous, well over six feet tall. Not exactly Jeannie’s usual type, but if she had the energy, she’d be swooning.

“A bourbon drink, and it’s what I’m getting.” She waves two fingers at the bartender. “Get her one, too. High-proof bourbon.”

The coyote bartender nods in clear approval, setting down two glasses.

“Thank you.” Jeannie swallows. “I’m sorry I’m kind of a mess right now.”

“A lot of us are.”

“You’re not.”

“Mmm.” The hare tilts her head to one side, looking distant. “I’ve seen a lot through the years.”

She snorts, wiping off an escaped tear with the back of her hand. “This too shall pass?”

“All things do. But some things pass far too soon, and others not near soon enough.”

The bartender sets their drinks in front of them, bright red concoctions served over big, clear ice cubes. The vixen picks hers up and sniffs. “I’m, uh, Jeannie.” She holds the glass out.

The hare picks up hers and clinks it to Jeannie’s. “Moira.”

Jeannie takes a swig, then grimaces. Bitter. Bracing, but appropriate, somehow. Better on the second sip. “I just…”

She trails off. Moira tilts her head again, now watching her with deep green eyes.

“I’m guessing I’m older than you by a couple of decades, and what I’ve seen through the years is one step forward, one step back, over and over. I thought… I thought we were really moving forward, for once, truly, not that long ago. Maybe just a little, sure as hell not as far as we’d like, but…” She puts a hand to her chest. “I could finally marry who I wanted. I could see characters like me in TV shows and movies and books, sometimes even ones who didn’t feel like tokens. And I just didn’t expect…”

“The backlash. I know.” Moira sips her drink, then looks into it as if trying to augur the future. “A long, long time ago—so stories say—there was a goddess who led a rebellion to move things forward, although that’s a very modern way to phrase it. She did expect the backlash if she lost, but she didn’t expect to lose. Do you know what her mistake was?”

The vixen shakes her head. She’s dimly aware of that story from mythology, although maybe she’s confusing it with one of a half-dozen other similar stories.

“I didn’t, either, for a long time. Longer than you think. I’m older than I look.” She looks to Jeannie again. “She had no reason to keep at it after she lost. Exiled, left among mortals who either didn’t understand what she’d tried to do or were happy she failed. Then, over the centuries, she was all but forgotten.”

The vixen nods uncertainly. “But she kept at it anyway?”

Moira puts her hand on Jeannie’s shoulder for a moment, looking into her eyes. “No. She didn’t. And I think that was her mistake.”

Jeannie’s eyes fill up again. “How can you expect someone to keep fighting when it’s so hopeless?”

“There are so many ways to fight, Jeannie. But they all start with believing that things aren’t hopeless. You can find your community. You can be there for them. Cry for them, rage for them, and yes, fight for them. Hold them up.” She slips her arm around the vixen. “And sometimes, maybe on days like today, just hold them.”

She rests against the hare’s side, sobbing now, even as she feels absurd for breaking down in front of a stranger who bought her a drink. Moira doesn’t scold her for that. She just holds her.

“This too shall pass,” the vixen murmurs.

“It shall.”

Jeannie sniffs, wiping her nose, and straightens up, nursing her drink and closing her eyes.

At length, she asks, “Did she ever try again?”

“Hmm?”

“The goddess.”

“Ah. The myths don’t say.” Moira swirls her glass around as if it were wine, ice cube clinking. “I’d like to think she will, though.”