“The truth hurts,” she says. I say, “Vodka dulls the pain. Ice just dulls the vodka, so screw it and drink up.”
She says a lot out of love, out of worry and fear. Between sips, I listen. Burning inside, I swallow it all. It ain’t easy. “But I deserve it,” she says. She’s right, the truth hurts.
But does it hurt the right person? I don’t know. The truth is we take it for granted, that it’s easy to spot. But it’s hardly ever clear. Why else, would we need a jury of our peers to decide who’s right and who’s wrong, who lives and who dies. The truth is what we remember and what we forget.
“She never means to hurt, it just can’t be helped,” I say when the bottle runs dry. Broken glass sparkles, shimmers in shades of white and red. I could go one more round, take a few more shots but the vodka’s all gone.
“Too bad about the vodka,” I mumble, slowly passing out. But from the liquor or the pain, I don’t know. Truth is it’s hard to tell.
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image by I.M.
© Chic Prune 2015