It was a long painful summer. Stomach perpetually attacked with
whiskey to take me as far away as possible from her. She was devoted and
blinded by love still—wouldn’t leave my side. I refused to say I loved her
anymore—she compensated by saying it all the time. I watched football, listened
to obnoxious music, ignored her whenever possible, and slept on the floor
rather than our bed. By winter I had succeeded. She was gone. I stopped drinking
for a while. It didn’t last. A few months later I picked up where I had left
off. This time to try to forget the mistake I had just made.
Brenton Booth
wayowie@gmail.com
Candide
Voltaire