The pillow reflects his silent tears, but he did not acknowledge the stains. His thumb rides the rim of the empty shot glass again, and he counts the seconds he’s stared at the ceiling. It didn’t matter how many seconds have passed since he’s returned. Each minute in the past scorns his drunken memory, one which he wishes could be lost like so many other drunken nights. His finger orbits the shot glass again, and he looks to the vodka on the mini fridge. He pours himself another shot, stopping once the cold alcohol reads his thumbprint. The burning alcohol heats the tension in his heart rather than extinguishing the regrets.
“I told you to keep silent,” his brain says.
“How long was he to keep silent?” his heart retorts.
“You thought it would be easier drunk,” his brain responds. “Don’t you know that it’s a misconception to think alcohol loosens you up?”
“She always did it so naturally when we were dunk,” he responds. “I thought I could do the same.”
“You forgot that when she did it, you were both drunk,” his brain mocks. “You should have realized how much has changed over two years.”
“She wasn’t the same when sober as she was drunk,” his heart responds. “You were expecting something more than what was required.”
“I explained too much, didn’t I?” he asks, to which his brain laughs.
“You always over-think the situation. You rehearsed the speech well, didn’t you?”
“You gave yourself to her.”
“Only the words,” he responds, filling another shot of vodka. His eyes press into his cheeks as the bitter heat travels through his throat. “Yes, it was well rehearsed. I knew exactly what to say. I didn’t even appear drunk.”
“That’s just your fault.”
“Don’t blame yourself for her rejection–”
“But when will the rejections stop?” he asks, turning to the door as if his heart and mind are anthropological.
“This was technically your first rejection,” his mind says. “You’ve never actually told anyone you loved them.”
“I rejected her.”
“There was Valentine’s Day–”
“He didn’t say anything. He just brought gifts and stood there like a fool.”
He brings the shot glass up and his upper lip cringes against the vodka. Even the vodka couldn’t inebriate the past.
~~~~~~
It was another dull Saturday night at Alex’s apartment. Two six pack of Coronas are shoved against a week old set of laundry. Everyone had a red cup filled with a White Russian by their hands.
“I won again,” he said, his face flushed. His two and five of hearts complimented the three hearts on the floor. “So I have an idea.”
“Play kings?” Alex asked.
“No, can I use your laptop? I want–”
“No way, der is no way I am letting you uz my laptop again,” Alex said, his thick Indian accent slurred by the four Coronas. He closes the laptop screen. “You always janj my FaceBook status to som-ting em-bare-a-sing or stupid.”
He sat there for a moment, unsure if the eight Coronas standing by his feet were really his or an accumulation of everyone. He drank the Corona in his hand, but his mouth was numb of the flavor.
“Embarrassing and stupid are practically the same,” he replied, falling against the wall as he stood up. Maybe the eight beers were all his. “I’m heading out.”
“Cause I won’t let you use my laptop?” Alex asked. “Listen, that is not a reason for you to leave.”
“No,” he replied, cracking a smile. “I don’t want to pass out in your room, so I’m going back to my room.”
“Alright, ‘ave a good night.”
It was all a cover up. He knew the number of beers he drank and he knew how to get back while looking sober. But he also knew how to feign drunkenness, and it wasn’t too difficult when he was buzzed enough. He walked the straight line back to his dorm, hands in pockets and face deep in his hood to keep a low profile as he passed a cop car.
“Z, y, x, w,” he began mumbling. As he came under the shadows of the school wall, he was safe from the cop. There was a fence behind his dorm, which surprisingly became a test to his drunken state. He stared at the gate, wondering if he was he sober enough to jump over the fence without tripping. As he swung his legs over, his left foot hooked onto the rail and he fell onto the moist ground. An inebriated curse parted his lips as he wiped the mud off his hoodie.
“She’s still awake,” he said, noticing her door cracked open slightly. He didn’t know if she was in the room or not, but still he went to her room. His knocks timidly to avoid opening it accidentally.
“The door’s open,” she said from inside, but he just stood there. He could still go back now, only five doors down the hall. But his unintended third knock opened her door, and she stood before the mirror fixing her hair.
“Hey–”
“How are you doing, Janey?” he said quickly, not wanting hear his name.
“I’m doing good. Were you drinking?” she asked.
“A little bit, and–”
“Your face is so red. Come inside before someone sees you,” she said, kicking clothes to the side and he stepped into her room of celebrity posters on the wall and tapestries hanging from the ceiling. “How much did you drink?”
“That’s…a good question,” he said, counting the empty bottles in Alex’s room that he thought were his.
“Stop counting your fingers,” she smiled, touching his hands. “Where’d you come from?”
“Um, I have something to tell you. I think…I’m not sure if I’m in love with you,” he said, and she pulled her hands away. “Cause I know the tension. Every time I see you, I remind myself to say hi, but always refrain from any greeting. Not even a wave.”
He could see the tension subside behind her glasses. She bit her lower lip, waiting to respond, but he continued.
“Your greetings were always protected from me. If you waved from behind a window, I could only mirror your action. You reserved your words from me when all I wanted is to hear your voice,” he said, shuddering between each beat of his confession. From the tender look on her face, he feared her response. “Although I want to become more, I must fight this urge to continue.”
“Continue?” she asked.
“If I were to love you, I could never reciprocate your love. I’d be living a lie. I can only silently love you.”
“But you’ve already spoken the words.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, turning to the door.
Her hand reached the door before his and she quickly locked it. Her breathing was deeper than his drunken breaths.
“I’m sorry that I also love you–”
He quickly held her close to quiet her. His love was requited by her. He wanted to hold her forever. His fingers began trailing her hair and he lightly held a fragile lock. He swallowed hard, fighting back his tears, but she felt his tears.
“You’re love is revoked,” he whispered, letting her go and left the room.
~~~~~~
“You left her there,” his brain and heart say in unison.
He swallows the shot of vodka and falls back on his bed, the tears dry against his cheeks. His heart and mind have finally come to an agreement. Two knocks on the door pull him up. He stumbles to the door with shot glass in hand.
“She’s calling you,” his heart says.
His hand sits on the doorknob and he could picture her outside the door. Her bronze hair falling in curls on her shoulders and tears drawing the outlines of her cheeks.
“Are you there?” she asks through the door. The lock clicks, prompting her hand to retreat and the light under the door is no longer there.
Epilogue:
A hint of sulfur
Lingered
Between the words I Love You
Her drunken memories
Fell
Short
Of her sober dreams.
She could hear the words but couldn’t feel the reassurance.
He watched the sunrise patch across her face,
It was the closest warmth she felt
Since he readjusted the blanket over her shoulders.
She could not recall
the lost words
From the night before
And he had already
Left
To avoid clarifying why the sun was upon her.
Nothing more than just a glance across the lawn.
The only syllables exchanged were silent breaths.
The breeze caressed her cheek
And melted the hair over her shoulders.
Her wandering thoughts pinch a peculiar flame,
Her fingers felt no heat but knew the fragile crispness.
The inebriated memories could not reflect from the October leaf.
He steps on the brittle flames upon the grass.
Extinguishing sober truth and drunken memory.
"I love you" was what he said with a hint of sulfur on his lips.
