It’s been years and I haven’t been this tempted until now. I’ve had too many drinks and everything feels good at the moment. I get distracted by the way he looks; I mold one figure into another. I replace hands, and arms, and eyes and hair, until it’s familiar, until I am comfortable with the image.
We try to talk about the existence of God, but it’s a struggle. It’s nothing but a time filler without any substance. And I breathe and I breathe and I breathe.
I begin to wonder about God, and the idea of perfection. I wonder about skin and its subtle imperfections, a placement of a mole, the softness of one spot and the roughness of another. God is fallible.
I morph my bar mate’s image again, and this time I’m sitting across from him and watching him interact with his new love. He turns to her, and then looks at me and says, “she leaves, she leaves, she just leaves”. The green chartreuse sits thickly on his gums and I can smell the memory from this distance. I leave when it’s best, before you can realize it. I left long before I sat on that deep red couch and tucked myself under the quilt his Mom had sent him, before the air between us hit my lungs. I left before he had told me not to come back.
I trace my fingers around the edge of the glass. The condensation feels cool to the touch, and I form an escape plan. It’s what I know best. It’s the door behind me, a quick exit out. Two steps and I’m gone, it’s what I do best.
And what I think best, is no longer wondering. I just come here and sit and soak up your time and submerge in sour taste of one sublime drink after another. I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.
I’m no longer there.
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