I slept like shit.
My last drinks were hardly late enough.
I had been cut off at the pub and was halfway to hungover by 9PM. The last sips of the Seagram’s Extra Smooth Vodka bottle burned the back of my throat, as if to leave one last reminder. Don’t forget me. Its vanilla aftertaste, which I have become all too accustomed to, now was suddenly metallic. And, as I desperately turned the bottle upside down for the last sweet drops, it seemed so incredibly unfair.
An anticipated, yet, oddly unexpected desperation and grief rose in me like a buoy. I hadn’t thought that letting go would be so difficult, not when I still held a bottle in my hand. Not yet.
At the bottom of my last bottle of vodka– lay a vat of some other poison. All that each endless glass upon glass had spared me, lay in wait after the last sip.
For some inexplicable reason, I felt it necessary to stow the empty Seagram’s bottle in the kitchen cabinet next to a box of kosher salt.
So it’s come, a life without you, this day without a glass.