When lying in bed I make up stories until I dull myself to sleep. I run away to dreams where I live a better life, as a writer or an artist - some mountain dwelling guru, bearded desert sage safe in the arms of the sand and a cloudy breeze. Sometimes I’m rich, sometimes I’m begging on the streets; sometimes I’m more loved or more beautiful, and sometimes none of it matters. Sometimes I’m wise, sometimes I’m artless, sometimes I’m peeling fruit down by the sea, and other times, very rarely, I’m just more myself and all the more happy. But in every fantasy I’ll start having problems, like sand stuck in my sandals or too much company. That’s when I stop and pray to God that I would just wake up.
Opening my eyes to cold sweats - sitting hunched at my bed side, aching, and smoking too many cigarettes. Rose asks me what’s wrong, half because she cares, half because the smell always wakes her, entirely because she thinks she needs to. Those long legs wrap around me and I kiss her the way I take a shot: straight to my chest and heart. She’s my whiskey after all - tall, dark, and full of really bad decisions.
“I just don’t want to any more babe.”
“Want to what?”