Chapter 9

9

Something shifts within me as soon as my lungs take in the smoke.

Scattered memories of a cigarette nesting in an antique glass ashtray, pulsating thoughts of a bullet filled clock hanging from the wall in a dismal living room scene.

Unopened letters from various addresses lie damaged on the floor. I've tracked in mud from gathering wood and have used some of the postmarks to unsuccessfully clean my boots.

She is squatting in the doorway to my office, picking up the bits and pieces of my recently smashed typewriter.

In a rage I begin yelling at her, but the words are muted, as if my head were underwater. She mimes back, her index finger accusing and cold. There is an intense pressure in my chest.

I count the steps, fourteen, from the living room to the kitchen, kicking the muddied envelopes and mussing their random placement. Fourteen steps and I won't hear her garbled voice anymore.

Fourteen.
Steps.
Until the vodka coats the back of my throat.

Fourteen.
Steps.
Until her voice becomes audible again. Accusing me. Judging me. She thinks I'm better than this. She hasn't known me very long.