The Drink

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Connect the Dots.”

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She didn’t say “goodbye.”

No note, no voice mail, no words.  At all.

Simply,

Clothes gone. Shoes gone.

A large cast iron pot.  Gone.

Like she had never been there.

Aside from a swinging

Hanger in the closet.

 

Even still, I knew.

As I walked slowly so slowly

Whisper, the squish of my shoe.

My apartment door, suddenly

Foreign, unrecognizable.

I knew, before I entered.

 

The argument.

Voices raised, indignation.

Inevitability, clenched fists.

All night, tossing, turning.

Burning.

A mind made up.

 

And now, vodka.

Clear eyed and waiting, waiting.

I realize

I’ve begun to sweat. 

The prickle under my arm.

Signaling

The choice is now mine.

 

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