I ceased being sober for the first time in some time last
night, envisioning myself back at that German bar, her long legs competing with
the legs of the bar stools we sat on, her lips dripping over the lip of her
wine glass, and I, all these years later, sucking in drinks until I’m as close
to drug as I can get, swaying as I swayed back then, aching for what I wanted
them, too, checking and rechecking my telephone for messages I know will never
come, aching to repeat what we did then but never since, drunk on being drunk,
the moment when I let down more than just my hair, getting inflated on that
memory, churching up the broth until my hands shake and fingers drip of wax
from a time when I could excuse it as being real, drunk on being drunk on her
again
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