nine o’clock

9 A.M. fine time for wine… or beer if that’s all that’s left in the fridge. I’m not much of a drinker, but damn there’s so many feelings that I can’t put into words. And I can’t find the words sober.

9:10 AM face red, bottle half empty, head woozy, tipsy me crawls into bed with him and buries my face into his shirt. It’s our last day together for a while or forever, who knows? I can feel the warmth of the alcohol creeping up from my neck up to my cheeks, accompanied by the sorrow and self-doubt rising from my chest, manifesting into tipsy words that slip from the tip of my tongue and land on his chest.

You don’t even care.

Doesn’t matter if I care or not, it doesn’t change a thing.

I don’t want to feel used.

What are you saying? How can you even say that?

I feel used.

I didn’t use you. We used each other. It wasn’t supposed to be emotional for either of us. But no, I didn’t use you in the way that you think.

Do you regret any of it?

No, we had a really great time, and that’s what matters.

I’m crying because it’s true and because I know I can’t change his mind. And he holds me as I regurgitate accusations and confessions, trying to tell me it’s okay, but unable to tell me exactly why we won’t work. He’s rubbing and patting my back as if that gesture will fix everything, and to be honest, it helps a little bit. Even though I know this is the end, his touch is still comforting and pushes me to the sleepy phase that’s been pulling for me. Just before I give in, I glance up.

His face is hard to read, almost emotionless, but his eyes are shining as they look past me.





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