The Disappointment of a Drunken Dialogue

I glance furtively at his bottle,
half full, warm as piss.
Mine is already empty,
but it would be wrong to double park him.
“So anyway man, I guess what I’m saying,
is that I can’t talk about her tonight.
If I start, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
I just wish he would stop droning and start drinking.
“Okay mate, we won’t talk about her.” I reply.
My empty bottle weighs my hand down heavily,
I’m restless, thirsty.
“I just don’t know what to do.” He says.
He takes a rare sip,
followed by a deep sigh, as if the beer was a cigarette.
“Fuck it, I’m off to the fridge.” I say.
/
“I’ve felt this way for fucking years.” He moans.
So do something about it, I think,
smiling wryly at the thought that he has been nursing,
from that particular bottle,
for fucking years.
That’s irony.
“What do you think I should do?”
“You said you didn’t want to talk about it.” I snap,
scanning his dilated pupils for just a hint of recognition,
of his contradictory requests.
I send some warm froth down my gullet and turn Spotify up.
“Just do what feels right.” I say over the booming base.
I look at his third full beer and shake my head condescendingly,
“Fuck it, I’m off to the fridge.” I say.
/
“I mean, I haven’t loved her for years, man.”
“Then leave!
How many times are we gonna talk about this?”
I muffle the rest of my words with deep swig.
He looks at his bottle dejectedly, rolling it in his hands,
pretending to read about its nutritional contents.
“I think I’m gonna go mate.” He finally replies.
“Okay man, we will talk next week.” I finish with a relieved nod.
He walks through the front door,
a wisp of cold air creeps into my lungs from the open doorway.
“He’s never gonna leave her.” I exclaim out loud, to myself.
I turn Spotify way down,
the vibrations from the speakers falling silent.
“Fuck it, I’m off to the fridge.” I say.

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