Only One Chance (Only One 2)

I do another thing I shouldn’t, especially with a whole bottle of scotch in my system. I look through my pictures. Most of them of her. Most of them taken without her knowing. Most of them with her smiling at something. Then I look at the one I took four days ago. Her in my bed, her hair on the pillow like a fan as she looks over at me with sleep in her eyes. It was then I almost told her that I loved her. It was then it finally dawned on me that I love this woman with everything I have.

“She doesn’t love you,” I say to myself.

Putting my head back, I open the other bottle of scotch and take a swig. Swig after swig, the night haunts me. Every single time my eyes close, it’s my own living hell. I try to force my eyes open, but nothing helps.

When I finally open my eyes the next day, the sun is streaming into the house. My mouth is dry, and my tongue feels like a cotton swab, not allowing me to swallow. I get up, and now the pounding in my head has me hissing. I walk over to the kitchen to grab a glass of water and two painkillers. I look over at the clock and see it’s almost fucking noon. I also see the vacuum in the middle of the hallway.

I walk over to the spare bedroom, starting the shower and undressing. I get in and put my hands on the wall, letting the water cascade around me. I wonder if she feels hurt. I wonder if she is laughing at me. The poor fucking idiot who she strung along like a love-sick puppy.

Turning off the shower, I walk to my bedroom with the towel around my waist, ignoring the bed that she fixed before she left. I also ignore the note that I know she left on the bed. It was something she started doing so I could read it when I got home. I slip on my basketball shorts and walk back into the kitchen, grabbing two more painkillers. My head pounds like a jackhammer is inside it. I start the coffee, walking to the door where I dumped my bag. I slip on my sneakers, then walk back to the vacuum, and I clean up the shattered bottle.

The sound of the little pieces of glass clanking into the vacuum cleaner makes my headache even worse. The doorbell rings as soon as I shut off the vacuum, and I look over, waiting to see if the bell rings again.

When it does, I walk back over to the front door. My heart speeds up in my chest, wondering if it’s her, but I know she wouldn’t come back here. Not after the way I spoke with her yesterday. Not after throwing her words in her face. I unlock the door, and I stand here now shocked when I see her standing there. Her eyes are red from crying, or maybe she didn’t sleep last night. Her hair is piled on her head, the big sweater she is wearing looks like it’s swallowing her.

“Hi,” she says, and I see that she is wringing her hands together. “I know that you don’t want to see me,” she says, and I almost slam the door in her face. “I just.” Her voice hitches. “I’d like for you to give me five minutes of your time, and then you never have to talk to me again.” She swallows now, and my stomach sinks.

“You have five minutes.” I move out of the way and give her room to come inside.

“Thank you,” she says softly and comes in and waits for me to walk into the house. She acts like she hasn’t been in this house before. I see that she looks down, and from the side of my eyes, I can see her wiping a tear away.

She stops walking when she sees the half empty bottle of scotch and then looks over at me. “You drank?”

“Is that what you came over here to talk to me about? My drinking.” I fold my arms over my chest.

“No,” she says, looking back down again as if she’s afraid of me. As though she can’t stomach to look at me. “Can I sit down?” she asks, and I see that her hands are shaking now when she isn’t holding them together.

“Did you drive here?” I ask, suddenly worried that she could have gotten hurt. But then I remember it doesn’t matter. It isn’t my problem. “Forget it. I don’t care,” I say, and I see her nod her head and swallow.

“I guess we can talk here,” I say to her, looking at the couch, and she walks over and sits down. Usually, she would sit with her feet curled under her. Usually, I would sit beside her with my arm over her legs.