out in my headstraights by appointment only

I’m drunk.

Well maybe not drunk, perhaps just a bit – tipsy? I glance over at the now-empty wine bottle as I cradle the slightly overfilled glass of wine in my hands. The TV is on to some  inane food program where the host is as usual being too far loud for me to actually want to watch the damn thing. I glance over at Charlie who’s taken a renewed interest in clawing at the sofa cushion, stopping briefly to give me a wide stare as I take another large sip. Stop judging me, you fucking cat.

There is a slight fumble at the door as a key is slipped in – a sharp click, and the door swings quietly open. He assumed I’d be in bed, so was trying not to wake me. I don’t need to glance at the clock to know what time it is – the wine has helped keep me company hours after I’ve eaten dinner by myself and packed the leftovers in the oven to keep warm. He comes over to the couch and leans in to kiss me. It feels hollow, empty – devoid of any true love or intent, just something to be done as part of a routine. I want to bite his lip, to draw blood, to feel or taste something other than this husk of a man that has been quenched of any passion.

But he is gone again, Charlie following at his heels, hoping to be scooped up into arms that have forgotten how to hold me.