The couch is surprisingly comfortable. It’s the fucking alcohol that won’t let me sleep. That, and Tina’s question. What do I want? A million things I’m never going to have. But this one? The one I asked for? That, I can imagine. I can make a case for one more email. I can imagine that one exists, stuck in the Cyclone mail servers. Maybe he left one last message hedged by a delivery date. Maybe it’s still coming. I want to believe it could exist. I want to think that it’s not completely, utterly, finally over. It’s over. It’s so fucking over that I watched it turn to fucking ash. My stupid wish is just the alcohol fucking with my mind. Maybe. Maybe there’s more. I pull my phone off the floor where it’s charging and open my mail. I’m trying not to imagine the way he would have laughed at me throughout the evening.
What do You think about The Year Of The Crocodile?
