My first wife was smart. She bought fifteen light bulbs, one for each light in the house and an extra for emergencies. She took half the light bulbs in the divorce. I have two left.
She took drink in a beautiful way. The whiskey slipped through her lips and down her throat. It would undulate like the ocean. Then she'd look at me and smile and ask me to pour her another one. Once, we stopped at a hotel on our way to Indiana to see her family and got hammered. She stood up on the ratty, sweat-stained bed and belted the Star-Spangled Banner nude. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
When she left me, I made love to her cousin in Chelmsford. She worked at McDonald's. The smell of grease still makes me cry.
Charlie is her queer brother. He's been good to me, keeps me in booze when I'm out of work. I think he took a shine to me. Sometimes he brings over big, round bottles of wine. I want to drown him in it.
It's a sin to fix good booze with Pepsi, but I'm low on supplies and I can't make it to the store tonight. The porch light flickers. I have one left.
No comments:
Post a Comment