Wasting away again.

I make up fantastic stories about how I meet him because we meet on the internet before one in five relationships were started that way. He is easy to hurt because he is small. I am also not the one to hurt him the most. I am usually honest. He introduces me to Schrodinger’s Cat, and Albert Camus. I can’t remember much about him other than that stupid sweater. I have never known a person so long yet they mattered so little. I can not tell you what his favorite food was, or what he would order at a bar.

On a trip to Key West, I meet my grandfather in the form of a drunken stranger. What I mean is this. We have drinks in a bar that doesn’t ID me which is vital since I am only twenty. And this drunken stranger, who I suppose is not really a stranger but just a woman I didn’t know very well at the time, ingests too much alcohol. She becomes violent and enraged; she becomes uncontrollable. In an effort to take her back to somewhere safe we hail a cab. Upon eyeing her, covered in blood and vomit and screaming, we are not permitted to enter. I send the men in the cab to retrieve the car that will then come back and get us to take her somewhere safe. As we sit on the bench outside of the Green Parrot, I wonder. As she screams that no one will help her, as she screams that she is dying and no one will save her, I wonder. As she tries calling her father to tell him goodbye, as she is certain that dying must feel like this, I wonder. What is happening to me? When we arrive somewhere safe she throws anything she can reach like a child learning how to use their arms. And when we wake up it is over and there is calm in the house. On returning home my mother asks me if we went to the Green Parrot and I am shocked that she would ask such a question. Yes mom, yes we did. And she begins to cry a little as she tells me that her father drank himself to death and died on the bench outside the bar, alone.