That Spark

THERE

The annoying sound of someone's bloody phone buzzing breaks me from my precious sleep.

I groan and turn onto my back, and then realize that I'm in my own bed, and that it is my own bloody phone that is buzzing.

My head pounds in the same frequency as the phone as I grope around for it with my lead infested arm. I clamp my mouth shut when it is awake too, tasting the digested beer trying to complete the circle of life.

Life of the party.

When I finally do find the phone, it takes my eyes some time to adjust to the screen, but before I can do that, it is too late.

I curse through my teeth and sit up slowly, and my stomach feels like a shaken can of soda ready to pop.

"Crap."

I manage through my teeth and race for the bathroom, reaching it in record time. Then I let my body do its routine Monday morning thing in the toilet.

With every bout that comes out, I remember every pint that went in last night. The vomit I can deal with on a regular basis.

Not the regret.

I know I don't want to do this. I'm chanting by the end of every week that I won't do this to myself. But I still find my head buried shamefully in the toilet every Monday morning.

"Michael?"

"Oh, great."

I take advantage of the sound of the flush to groan louder than usual. But I'm positive that Ellie already knows I do that.

"Are you awake?"

She appears in the doorway of the bathroom in her pink robe, holding a pitcher of something green in it. The sight of it only just makes it worse, and I dig my head into the toilet again, unloading the reaction to the first vomit bout followed by the green stuff.

No doubt, it was Ellie's new homemade hangover solution. They're not exactly effective, but Ellie was hell bent on perfecting it. It was the least she could do, she had said. I think that is partly the reason why I drink so much, being the sadist I am. I know it bothers her. But I don't seem able to do anything about it.

"Let it out. . . ."

She whispers, leaning over me and stroking her fingers through my hair and then down my back. I sit up abruptly and lean against the bathtub behind me, and Ellie kneels in front of me.

I'd told her to leave me alone at least when I was throwing up, but it doesn't seem to bother her.

"All out?"

She asks, swiping her thumb across the corner of my mouth. I look away, disgusted. She makes the transparent pitcher hover in front of me, compelling me to look at her.

"I asked Mrs. Trudy from next door for help. She said to add some ginger."

"Ginger." I snort. "Just what this needs."

I think I grimace, but Ellie sees past it.

"Please, Michael? I want you to feel better."

I sigh frustratedly, my head still spinning and I grab the pitcher to chug the green stuff down.

It tastes like slosh, dirt and fungus.

I groan when I am half down and thrust it back into her waiting hands.

"Goddamn it, Ellie! It gets worse every week."

"I'm sorry. I'm trying."

She whispers, staring down at the pitcher.

Just about anyone would at least bring up the matter of my heavy drinking and try and persuade me to take it down a notch. Terry had done it. But not Ellie. She only cared as long as I was home and safe.

I sigh again, and see that she is still running her tiny pink fingers along the cup handle and staring at it.

"Ellie."

I breathe, and she looks up at once; moving her head in such a way that the bathroom light on the left is completely focussed on the right side of her face, and I can see the faint brown line running down from her brow.

I feel another round of vomit rising up my pipe, but this time it's because I am disgusted at myself.

I sigh, and raise my fingers up to stroke the scar down her face, and Ellie leans her face into my hand. When I make contact with it, the corresponding memory plays before my eyes.

"Sorry." I mutter, dropping my gaze and hold my head in my hands. I can hear Ellie's soft breaths between my strained ones, and it is only a second later that she takes my left hand and kisses the wedding band.

"You promised to love me and take care of me. These little spats don't matter to me, Michael."

I tilt my head up to look at her eyes, but I find that I'm too ashamed. She made me feel so loved sometimes that I almost condemn myself. She somehow looks past all the grumbling and the bickering and remembers the vow I had made three years ago.

My throat feels like it's caught in a bear trap, and not a sound comes out. I quietly take her petite face in my hands and kiss along the faint brown line.

The memory, the words, they play again. . .

Ellie guides my mouth to her own, and I lean my face away.

"Ellie, I just puked and drank something worse."

"It doesn't matter." She breathes, the intensity of her affection still in every syllable, as she guides me back to her lips.

I try to keep my mind clear of the whispering thoughts; the ones that always remind me that I don't deserve her and crap like that, and try to love her with matching intensity. Loving her was the one time my conscience could bring about actual carnage to the scorn.

What a turn on, eh?

When Ellie breaks the connection, we are both panting. I watch as she undoes her robe, revealing her moist flesh. I swallow, and lean her back onto the floor, undressing myself with trembling fingers. I'm not sure if it's because of the adrenaline or the guilt.

Ellie smiles beautifully up at me, blinking too fast with impatience.

Sex obviously meant different things to us.

"We'll have to be quick, okay? I don't wanna be late for work."

I smile, leaning in again, as my hands reach for her drawstring.

"You're already late." Ellie breathes, arching her back with her eyes closed.

What?

But the words don't come out.

I frown at her, trying to remember what time my phone had said. Apparently, I had succeeded in clearing my mind, but for all the wrong reasons.

I cannot be late. It was just last week that--

I bolt to my feet and rush for the bedroom for the phone. It was almost ten.

"Shit."

I curse faster as it dawns on me how late I am.

"Michael?"

I ignore everything as I throw the whole bottle of mouthwash down my stinking mouth and gargle, still cursing.

"Michael?"

"Goddamn it, Ellie! You were supposed to wake me up!"

She stays quiet as I throw on a pair of pants and a clean shirt. From the corner of my eye, I see that she is leaning into the edge of the wall, staring at the floor. When she speaks, it is barely a whisper.

"But you came in late yesterday and I thought that you'd be tired so--"

"So you let me sleep in?"

I snap and Ellie shudders.

"You impossible woman."

I groan, the libido disintegrated; the anger rising from its ashes.

The next thing I know, I'm out the bloody door.