The Whiskey Monologues

A mutual friend told me he got married after I left him.

“Well, good for him,” I said, to no one, stumbling down the sidewalk in a pea coat. “Good. For. Him.” I’m replying to the memory of the conversation. During the actual conversation, though, I laughed, told our mutual friend I had to go back home for an early flight, stopped by a liquor store, and drank my weight in alcohol.

It was 4 in the morning when I decided to drive by his apartment, a two-hour drive from the city. For what, I don’t know. I parked across the street from his window. There was a light on, and my breathe hung on any silhouette that may pass by. But none did. I imagined walking up to his door, soaked from the rain outside and begging him to take me back. He’ll stand at the doorway in his boxer briefs and five o’clock shadow, alone. His wife won’t be there because by then he’ll have found he made a mistake in marrying her. He’ll pull me in passionately, kiss me the way he used to, and we’d make love in the hallway just behind the door. But that’s not realistic because it’s not even raining, and I’m a coward, and I stumble my drunk ass to a nearby park and pass out.

Submitted by M.