Wine. The worst nights always began with wine. We never stopped to put two and two together. Mornings after, needing to shave our tongues and send our stomachs through the car wash.

No matter how clean the apartment had been the night before, once the cork was pulled, and the wine dribbled down our chins, the dishes would pile up on the counter. The hamper and washing machine would explode, spewing filthy clothes all over the floor. Ashtrays would overflow, sending half-smoked butts and burnt filters flowing away like lava from a volcano.

We'd hold our heads betwen both hands and look at each other with painful red eyes. Aware of the things that were said the night before, but doing our best to deny and forget. Mysterious scratches and bruises on arms and legs and necks.

Navigating past the empty green glass botttles on the floor, we would come together on the couch, staring ahead. Unable to recognize the silent third person standing with us and unsure if we really wanted to.

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CraigTowsley (joined almost 11 years ago)
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I think this site is like a power juicer to the armadillo-skinned oranges of writer's block.

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