Vodka

“Hey. So guess what has really been on my mind a lot as of late. Go ahead and guess.”
“Her?”
“Well. Yes, of course. But I was going to say marriage, it’s become something I really want to happen to me some day. Obviously no time soon, I mean it can’t really since I’m single.”
“Yeah. I know what you’re talking about. Trust me.”
This went on for sometime just idle conversing back and forth between two friends discussing ideal wedding plans, potential employment opportunities, school, and music. The reminders of his hometown began to annoy him like it usually did after he thought about it too much however.
“I'm going to go outside and chain smoke whilst staring at the street in which I live on. So. Take care.”
“You too.”
He slid his bare feet into a pair of slippers that did not belong to him and tried his best to exit out the back door of the house, realizing how much more difficult everything is when you’re trying to do it without making noise. After managing to get outside without causing too much of a disturbance he slipped a filtered cigarette into his mouth, pulling out his white lighter which would not work after no less than twenty attempts.
“God damn this thing. Is there anything out here I could use to light a cigarette?”
There wasn’t. So after a silent search and rescue for a working lighter inside he was out in the below freezing weather again, standing at the end of the driveway inhaling deeply. The streetlights reflected off of the snow making it much brighter than it should be for one thirty in the morning. There was no sound of human life, not even cars in the distance. He was cold. He was thinking about Her.
The night before the Halloween party came to his mind.
He was planning on going to the party as a Russian, so he had on hand a fifth of Gordon’s vodka. He had already taken a few swigs of the bitter water with Her earlier in the night out at a friend’s bonfire. They all sat in a row, staring into the fire. They passed around a joint with something in it that tasted too sweet to be weed, but it got the job done. The time approached for them to leave, and after some reassuring that he was in fact good enough to drive they left in a good demeanor. Down the highway they went, him holding Her hand while making geometric shapes with his finger.
“I love you.”
He always felt like adding “too” onto the end of the statement makes it sound like you’re saying it because you have to now that they have said it.
“I love you.”
He dropped Her off and watched Her walk all the way to Her door and didn’t leave until She was inside.
Back at his father’s house he was no longer buzzed from the fake weed so he decided a few more swigs were in order while he vacantly surfed the Internet. She was online. Their Internet conversations usually consisted of the same elements.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Tell me a secret.”
But tonight they consisted of something much less fluff than usual.
“Who is this girl?”
“she’s no one. I follow her blog.”
The blog in question contained nude pictures of its owner, She discovered after a few minutes. An argument ensued and there is nothing more frustrating than arguing via Internet. He started sipping the Vodka slowly at first while the argument was still around statements like “Is this what you want?” and “You know you’re the only person I want to be with”. But by the time statements like “I have only given you the best” and “maybe I should just kill myself then, is that what you want?” entered he was drinking from it continuously, no longer feeling any burning from it.
“I’m going to call you.”
“Ok”
And it continued with much more ease relaying hateful and hurtful things more directly. In one hand he held his phone to his ear and the other the jug of vodka to his mouth, only breaking from drinking to mutter poorly thought out defensive replies.
“I’ve been drinking this whole time by the way, just so you know.”
“How much?”
“Most of it.”
He found himself holding that box cutter, like it always found its way into his hand when he was least expecting it. Now dragging it across his left fore arm. He was right handed.
“The blood looks so magnificent. I hope I don’t get any on the carpet though.”
“What?! Do not cut yourself, I’m sorry.”
“Too late. It’s ok though.”
An empty bottle and a box cutter sat on his desk while he continued to cry and mutter apologies into the phone. This went on for a while until they both felt reassured that the other was stable.
“Listen, I’m sorry. We definitely need to talk about this tomorrow though. I’m going to be sick right now though.”
“Ok, are you going to be alright?”
“Maybe.”
That night ended with him blacking out. The next day She and Him got together and talked things over, they got stronger from it and also had a few more scars.
All this came back to him at the end of his mother’s driveway in the cold January night, smoking and staring at nothing.