Warning: alcohol.
It was scary, that world outside the bottle.
It had bills to pay, problems to fix. An overflowing sink.
An ex-husband.
And I could not bear to see Dan collapse into it.
15 hours, the bells ringing from down the street. A sweet
song to hear before Dan would cry from inside his room.
Needing an early dinner, needing someone to stroke his hair,
needing someone to scratch the spots on his back he couldn't scratch.
Needing an embrace, needing sex. Needing love.
Things I could give him if he wasn't constantly drowning in
cheap, stale beer.
"Phil!" cried Dan. His voice ghastly echoed off the walls.
A roast beef sandwich, some crisps, a soda.
"Phil!"
Left foot, right foot, turn the handle.
"Phil."
Don't look him in the eye if you want to live.
"Here's your meal," I say. Hand it to him, leave the room.
"Wait, Phil," I hear him whisper.
Stop in your steps.
Turn around, retrace them.
Follow them back to your problem.
"Please, stay with me," he pleaded.
How did I get myself here?
I climb into bed and fall asleep inside the bottle.
