No city lights warmed his features and the sky seemed to be moonless; there was no distant music in another language and there was a stillness that just ceases to exist in the city.  Being home always creates an internal quietness, usually uncomfortable.  It always provides too much space for memories that are too fresh to linger and for thoughts that are too unpleasent to play on repeat.  But that night the quietness seemed equally external.

I was already experiencing a sort of disorientation from life itself so it did not take much alcohol to be absolutely drunk.  I could feel my cheekbones stinging with drunkness after the wine, too light of a meal, and a bit of tequila.  I rememeber telling him that the next time I refuse to put any energy into it unless its us against the world. What a ridiculous thing to say, no? I was that young girl in a bar, moving my hands like it would make my point more valid and genuine. My memory of our discussion about relationships past and future is fragmented; I wasn’t choked up, I was dismissive and irreverant.  Had he not known me well, he would have had no idea I was heartbroken.

I can’t drive, I told him.  I’m going to stay here until I can. I rememeber laying on the floor, drunk, and playing with his dog. Not talking politics, not having a psuedo intellectual conversation about religion or class inequality or feminism.. It was just drunkness; everything seemed soaked with alcohol and the the lights streaming down onto the tile I was playfully sprawled out on made me squint my eyes and made the room spin.  At one point, my phone rang-I don’t even remember who it was and he grabbed my back hard and if I wouldn’t have been numb from  alcohol I almost certainly would have ran my fingertips down his skin.  I almost certainly would have sat up from the floor and looked at him, hoping he would do it, but knowing if he didn’t I would.

He makes me laugh an ugly laugh, a real laugh.  I always end up clutching my stomach and telling him I hate him but I really don’t at all. Nothing happened between us, physically, I don’t know if it will.  But there is this quiet easiness to speaking to him, to studying the ink that spills from his shoulder down his arm.  I could wake up with him, I think.  I don’t even think I’d leave before breakfast.