Three Fingers of Maker's Three Times Over
It started with my wife at work and the boys in bed. There was a sink full of dishes and a desk covered in bills and deadlines. The house was quiet.
The heat carried the humidity of a teasing rain. A tease that could never fulfill its promise even if it rained through the night. It was cruel and thick and I lost all ambition to humor it. The night seemed oblivious to my forfeit and continued to engulf me. Soon a sip of whisky stepped forward to fight fire with fire. It would prove futile.
At some point Jeff Buckley arrived at the stereo, it went like this, the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift and my mind echoed the hallelujahs.
Then the words fell from me, just as they had so many years ago, from lips stained with wine towards women drained from tears, and the whisper of my memories danced with the haunting voice of eternal youth- it was the whisky versus the night all over again.
The soundtrack played like this: Maybe there's a god above, but all I've ever learned from love, is how to shoot someone that outdrew you.
And so forth and so on.
Some things are lost and some are forgotten. Some things should live forever. I'm not sure which is which, but dirty dishes aren't going anywhere and the whisky needed a shoulder to cry on. I'm good for that.
It ended with me in a living room surrounded by stoic walls and the mocking shadows of swaying candlelight. I let the whisky linger long after it was forgotten.