(no subject)
Reading the words stung more than I thought they would. I saw it coming, knew it was, even prepared myself for it. Not even the curtesy of word of mouth, just a sloppily scrawled not that talked about how he was what she needed right now. Always leaving that glimmer of hope. Said I should move on but left a secret promise of return.
She knew I'd wait.
Bitch.
I know I'd wait.
Idiot.
I light another cigerette. Forgot I have half of one still burning between my fingers.
Like I said, idiot.
I just pop the second in my dry lips. Wastful not to. I pour a juice glass with what little left I could call scotch. This time I make sure there wasn't a glass in hand. Sad enough, all there is is the uneven smokes and the shaking scrap of paper. I blame it on the wind.
All the windows are closed. I open one to back my shitty excuse.
The liquid ember burns going down and the glass chips as it's slammed against the table. This time it's shoddy construction.
I should have left her. Made it dramatic. Cool. I'd have to settle for my theatrical reaction.
I once almost broke my little brother's nose for carrying a knife in one of our fights. I carry the gun under my shoulder because I won't have others swinging theirs around me. Not once did I relish the idea of staring down the freight tracks of a barrel.
I find myself thrusting my hands in my coat pockets to keep myself from it.
Not before tearing off the black tie around my neck.
She loved my ties.
I snuff the first butt. Smoking solo now.
She hated my smoking.
I knew I didn't have the guts to erase the memories with a round. Smokes would have to do.
I'd wait.
It's been said I'm an idiot.
Idiot.
I burn a little hole in the note with the cherry.
Symbolic. I'll run with it.
I doodle little men on it, noose with a tie. I was never an artist but I've impressed myself. The lifeless stick figures look just like me; worn, thin and shaky.