He peeled himself off me. It sounded like a sweaty flesh version of Velcro as our skin parted. There was still gin on his breath when he said “I love you.” He drifted off within seconds. A designated driver dropped him off at the land of inebriated sleep. The sex was as it should have been, too rough and in a drunken, sloppy stupor. I am always shocked and amazed when he keeps it up. Whiskey Dick is the bane of this boy’s existence. It haunts his blurry eyed adventures into alcoholism.

After he threw the knife I got him for Christmas on the ground, and was content to crawl into bed and make valiant efforts to entice me, he vowed to lessen his drinking. He claimed he knew he had a problem and would try to solve it. He had to work early and here it was three in the morning and the prospect of a decent sleep was greatly diminished. This meant his mental capacity at work would be the buzz of a moth around a naked bulb. I knew that tomorrow for all general purposes, he would be brain dead. And thanks to his early morning intoxicated depressed rant and badly executed sexual manners; I’d be brain dead at work as well.

I turned my back to him and stared at my bathroom. With my head nestled into an overstuffed pillow, I thought, perhaps he is telling the truth this time, perhaps. The soothing sound of his heavy breath baited me to sleep. I waited patiently for my forty winks to consume me.

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