Her red lipstick still smeared on the neck of the small plastic vodka bottle. The hopes of our relationship lingering in the ounces that have been left by careless swigs of intoxicating passion. A passion that grows so deep, it consumes you and can stare you in the face as though you don't exist.
Looking at its red cap peering out of her bag, I grabbed it, squeezing it as to diminish any possibility it possessed of entrancing my love again. The plastic bottle that was in my hand as I left the house, now sits next to my computer as I write this.
Its amazing, the meaning we attribute to mundane objects. This 7" bottle of No. 21 triple distilled Vodka has taken on a life, or better yet a story, that gives it meaning; like a gun that just fired its slug into an innocent victim.
Its a story I know to well. A story that starts with a call at 5:00am, inaudible words can be heard above the screams for help. A sharp pain in my stomach followed by cold chills as though I just emerged from an ice shower. I layer up and drive to the location, a police station. My body trembles with fear and anger as I peer through the door and see the tip of a boot that I recognize. "Fuck" I angrily say to myself as I grit my teeth, I open the door and see the girl I love laying on the bench. A silence falls over the room, the screams for help forgotten in the haze of drunkenness. I stand over her for a few seconds before I call her name "Jen, Jen its Mike," to which she doesn't respond. "JEN" I yell, as she peers up, blinking and rubbing her eyes. She stumbles to hug my shivering body, "I miss you" she says with such empathy.
I'm addicted to her. Her essence entrances me when lock eyes, followed by a false hope that everything will be fine. I have become dependent on her, but for what I have yet to establish.
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