Three bottles of bourbon
She left yesterday. Saturday. In the afternoon. Was she really ever here? Everything is hazy. She was supposed to stay all weekend, but… I can’t quite remember now. I feel the shadow of her presence, smell a whiff of her perfume. But then I look around at all the squalor and … doubt.
There are a lot of boxes of Chinese takeout. More than normal, more than for one person. Did we order that? It smells old. Friday night, I guess. Bottles of beer fill the table, the trash. But that’s normal. The two bottles of bourbon feel excessive. I don’t usually drink that heavily, unless…
I look for my notebook. If I drank that much I must have written something. Maybe something good, something really good, something useable. If it was legible.
The ashtray is full. But not all of them are mine. I don’t smoke lights. She was here. I can’t believe I brought her here. Why would she have come? Why must she have thought? Why did she stay? More importantly, why did she go?
I find my cell. Six missed calls. Three messages. My mom, my brother, and her. I think I am surprised, but I don’t know if I should be. Why did she leave? What did I do? Did we have a fight? Did I do something wrong? Why would I have drunk so much? Not much could have pushed me to that. Unless, no, couldn’t be.
I get some water and keep looking for my notebook. I find it, but it’s worthless, as usual. Nothing but gibberish. The more fantastical and absurd meanderings of my unconscious. And I think that was from Thursday. There’s nothing about her. Either there was nothing worth committing to paper, or… Or I couldn’t deal with it and went straight to the booze. Things are starting to clear up and I don’t think I want them to. There wasn’t a fight. But that makes sense. I never could get mad at her. Only at myself. No… We hugged as she left. But then I did I start drinking? And why was she almost crying? That sad all to knowing smile… Oh, shit.
Now I’m afraid to listen to my messages. The ache in the pit of my stomach. The hole in my chest. The panic. But why would she call? What would be left to say? This can’t be good. This really can’t be good. I don’t want to go on. I need to go on. I call my voicemail, pulse quickening. Mom wonders where I am and why I never call. It barely registers. My brother wonders how I am and why I never call my mom. He’s such a good son. He would never go and drink himself into oblivion like this. But I wasn’t really listening for either of those messages. And now. Her message…
I need another bottle of bourbon.