It’s the middle of the day but the sunlight can’t quite seem to penetrate the window screens. A haze rises up from the earth in a drunken, wavy mist and even the cicadas stutter and fall short in their song. The bar is dim. A single fan turns ineffectually above my head. These things I barely notice – I’m thinking of you.
My whiskey glass, filled and refilled a half dozen times with barely enough time for the ice to melt in between, rests now in a pool of its own condensation. As I watch the ice melt, I picture in my mind for the hundred thousandth time our last argument. The one in which you said you didn’t care. You, with your lofty ideas and your selfish words and your face, easy, cheapened by your ideals. You, who I believe really doesn’t give a single flying fuck about anyone but yourself.
Why, I ask myself, do I let you in to my life? Why do I allow you to affect me?
A change in the air as the space before me bloats with your ego causes me to look up from the table. As I thought, you have entered the bar. You stare at me and my ice refreezes. The room is so frigid that my glass is frozen to the table, adhered; as immovable as I have caused myself to be.
I don’t know if it’s the booze or a shift that’s been building up inside for all these years, but I laugh. I scoff at you and the blast of your glare falls impotent to the floor in front of me.
Once again, my glass sits in a puddle of its own condensation. But this time, I’m free.