The Whiskey Monologues

SLUR

You were drinking from a glass that was made in France, but I didn’t know it at the time. I just sat on the floor by your feet, trying to forget history. Our history. 

But it’s near to impossible, you know. It’s been years of this, the on and off romance, the  nights of drinking ourselves numb in different bars after hours of vicious verbal sparring. We are so wrong for each other, yet you’re the only one I trust. Out of all the people who love and support me every day of my life, I only have faith in you. Why? Because I know you will never, ever change. I can always count on you to fuck things up for me when I’m finally doing better. I’m addicted to the way you tear my life apart each time I crawl back to you. 

And here I am again tonight, already regretting the fact that I made the call, but reveling in the familiarity of the moment nonetheless. When we drink together, we sink down to the same level, onto the only common ground we still have. I understand you inebriated in a way I’ll never understand you sober, and the same goes for you. This is simply us; this is what we do.

I’m comforted by the silence that seeps over me, but then your words slice through it. You slur me a series of stories from your recent travels in Europe but I can’t focus, can’t follow. Paris sounds like a dream, Rome like wind chimes, then Barcelona whirls by like a bullet. I look up at you but I’m not listening, I’m wondering who the hell you are now, who is this person I once claimed to know?

You trail off at some point and start to run your fingers through my hair. You know I don’t like when you do that but you do it anyway. I want to ask you to stop but I know if I try to speak now the spell will be broken, and the tentative peace between us will shatter once again. So I keep my mouth shut except to allow for the flow of whiskey between my lips and I let the night roll on.

Submitted by Ana.