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It flashes in my head for the hundredth time—
Penny’s French-manicured nails digging into Ryan’s tattooed forearm. Her laugh filling the air as she leans closer. Whispers some memory about old times. About how thoroughly he fucked her. How much she misses his lips, his fingers, his cock.
I suck the last drop of Grey Goose from my straw. Unscrew the cap on the bottle. Fill my glass to the brim.
That’s enough to knock me out all afternoon.
This is complete hypocrisy.
It’s pathetic, drowning my feelings in booze.
But I don’t care.
I need these awful mental images gone.
The two of them in this bed, him tearing off her pretty cardigan, her unzipping his tight jeans. Sliding them off his hips. Trailing her lips down his stomach.
His hands in her long, dark hair.
It’s so long. And dark. And pretty.
She’s gorgeous. In that striking way. In a New York City kind of way. In a she had nine years in his bed, and she’s already a cheater, she’s probably not going to keep her hands off him kind of way.
I suck vodka through my straw. It’s crisp. Clean. Clear.
But it fails to ease the tension in my shoulders.
I drain the glass. Leave it—and the bottle—on the black dresser.
Ryan hasn’t lived here for nearly a decade, but this room still screams of him. Posters for gritty thrillers and indie bands cover the black walls. White string lights line the ceiling.
When I pull the blackout curtains—black, of course—the sun disappears.
The room goes dark.
I flip the switch and the string lights glow like stars.
Mood lighting.
Lighting to fuck by.
Or fuck yourself by.
I press my eyelids together. Attempt to destroy my mental images of Penny and Ryan with much more appealing ones.
It doesn’t work.
I see them. Here. There. Everywhere.
The room spins as I fall onto the black bedspread. It smells like him.
It’s not him.
But it’s warm and comforting all the same.
I wrap myself in the blanket, close my eyes, try to convince myself to stop imagining Ryan and Penny’s conversation.
I fail.
