Stories

A Quarter 'Til...
07/17 2001

I finally drag myself home around three. Another night of feeling sorry for myself finally drawing to a close. For a moment I try to break through the alcoholic haze, to remember how long I’ve been doing this. Waking up at one, knocking around until dark. Then marathon clubbing, trying to at least pretend I’m having a good time and finally crawling back home in the dead of night. Lather, rinse, repeat, ad nauseum.

It feels like years since she left, which means it’s probably been a month at the most. I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. Why bother? I’m depressed enough as it is; no need to figure my Loser Index now.

Jane. Janie-love. Plain Jane. God, she hated when I called her that one. I thought I was being funny. I guess she didn’t share my sense of humour. Though on reflection, that was the least of our problems.

I still find it difficult to see how I could have been so stupid. It’s not like the signs weren’t there. I must have been to blind to see them. No, scratch that; I saw. I was just to stubborn to accept. We were finished before we started.

If we had been different people, I imagine we could have had a great laugh over this. It was so... trite. The lowest of scriptwriters could have tossed it together. Cast Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan and you’d have another chick-flick for the masses.

There I was, on one knee in the rain while I poured my heart out to her. She could have stopped me at any time. But no. Made sure I had a nice mouthful of shoe leather before she said anything. I still don’t know whether it was on purpose or she thought I should just get it out of my system. Not that it even matters any more.

I don’t feel like sleeping so I decide to keep the pity party going until I’m thoroughly sick of it. Or until I drink myself sick, whichever’s more convenient. The mob of empty bottles in the liquor cabinet stand in quite tribute to the long days and longer nights, but I finally find an unopened bottle of imported wormwood. French, I think. Maybe German. Damned if I could read the label anyway.

I think I picked it up right before I bought the ring. Knew this guy who traveled a lot and had him sneak one back for me. It was supposed to be a surprise for after the reception. She was always in love with the romance of absinthe. Seems almost fitting that it’s gonna be the last one to go.

I fill a wineglass and watch the pale liqueur as it swirls around. Through a trick of the light and crystal it almost seems to glow. I raise my glass in a silent toast to nothing in particular then I drink. It goes down like licorice fire. Not a sensation I’d call pleasant by any stretch of the imagination, but that’s not the point at all tonight.

The clock on the mantle says a quarter to four when I notice that the bottle’s gone dry. Just as well, I was getting tired of drinking anyway. Sleep was singing its siren lullaby and I was in no shape to refuse. I’m halfway there when the absinthe tells me that I don’t need to go to bed in a much more insistent voice. I stumble to my knees then collapse onto my side on the floor.

As the blackness creeps in at the edges of my vision, I notice the picture hanging on the wall. Jane and me standing in front of an old mausoleum with my family name carved above the door. We’re both smiling.

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