Whiskey Bent

It was two years since my wife had… died and I was still looking at Sue with longing. She was the kind of girl every guy would fall for, and they all did, including me. She was always out on a date, or a drive, or a ball, or a dinner, or some such thing. Sometimes with me, but I knew I was just one of many.

Not for long, though. I had a plan, you see. I had been telling her that I was an alcoholic trying not to drink and it was getting harder for me. Harder every day since she… died.

Now I had a phone in my hand and I knew what I would say: “Sue, I know it’s not… I just… I have a bottle of whiskey. I… uhm… (maybe start crying here) I miss her so much. Ever since she… died.”

She would try to tell me everything was going to be alright. Tell me to get rid of the whiskey. Tell me she would come over.

Or would she tell me it was my life and I should regain control myself? Or tell me it was good for me to drink? Dammit, now is not the time to turn back. Call her!

I dialed. She was not picking up and it went to voice mail, so I hung up. I pictured her kayaking with some hunk right this moment. God damn, that bitch.

I heard the faucet in the bathroom turn on by itself. I knew it was not water but blood. It happened every night around this time. Ever since my wife… died.

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