Sorry About That

She asks me how I’m doing, and she says that I should have another drink. She hands me her half-full solo cup—I never stop to ask her what it’s made of—and she tells me I should drink it up. And then, of course, I do. It hits me fast and hard, so I don’t realize when I look back in the cup that it’s half empty now (I think my judgement’s just a little gone). When the room is empty, she looks at me as always when she waits for me to match her half way, but I stop and ask her first if she’s okay with this and like every time, she says it’s fine (although I don’t believe her) and she says that I ask far too many questions. So, ashamed, I shut up and we slip into my room.

Nov. '07