I Curse you, Bottle

It was very cold for a midsummer night. However I preferred to grab a table on Figaro’s deserted patio rather then spend another minute surrounded by loud, sweaty people and their prying eyes. My boyfriend had lent me his jacket before rushing back into the Ukranian Federation for the band’s encore. I sat eyes fixated on the wooden doors. The waitress gracefully made her way over to the table and asked if there was anything I would fancy. “A crème brulée and a tall glass of milk, please.” I tried to sound pleasant. As soon as she was gone, my eyes wandered back towards the venue. I desperately tried not to think of the disaster our outing had become.

My comfort food hadn’t even arrived yet when I saw him walking across the street. He spotted me instantly and took a seat at the table, eyes glazed from all the Jameson he’d been drinking – he doesn’t even like Jameson. He began rummaging through his backpack and pulled out his iPod. He sat there trying to untangle the wires of his earphones. I watched him as he struggled and the vivid image of a child came to mind. The waitress came back with my indulgences and before she could turn to leave, he ordered a grappa. My insides tightened, but at least I had something to occupy myself with – food.

Although I tried not to look at him, his swaying back and forth on the chair and sudden outbursts of lyrical gibberish was making it extremely difficult. I don’t remember ever finishing a crème brulée so fast. I just wanted to leave, but of course, what I want is never easily attainable when he is in his drunken stupor. As soon as I caught a glimpse of our waitress I beckoned for her to bring the check. At this time he was rambling on about what a beautiful concert it was and how he was so happy I was there to share the experience with him. My stomach tightened a little more. I downed the rest of the milk. His grappa went down like water.

As soon as everything was paid for I looked up at him. The spectacle made me nauseous. He was definitely in a trance: eyes closed, lips mumbling, hands gesturing. If he weren’t my boyfriend, I would have found the spectacle quite amusing. If it weren’t his health that was at stake, I would have been lighter hearted. If my grand mother wasn’t dying from the same affliction he had…

Finally I managed to coax him into going home. It was like pulling teeth. Like dealing with a bratty toddler. Once across the street, he had to piss. He found that the Bixi bike stands next to the sidewalk were a decent spot, so he there he pissed for a while as I waited by him, people glaring at us. At this point all I wanted to do was be home so badly I didn’t care about anything else. I didn’t even realize he was finished until he started fumbling with his iPod again, trying to replay that “beautiful part” in the song he was listening to, all the while shifting around in his piss. Tears started streaming down my face as I looked up at the night sky asking myself “why?” I wasn’t the only one crying, his cheeks too were tearstained as he began singing louder and more incoherent. I asked him what was wrong. All he could muster was “thank you” and “so beautiful”. I gaped at him incredulously.

It seemed like hours before I spotted a cab. I begged him to behave, in vain of course. He sang the whole way home. It began to rain and the water on the windowpanes mirrored the tears on my face. The knot in my stomach felt like a cancer. I cried in silence.

Once in front of my house, I tipped the cab driver generously. Upstairs, I discarded my clothes and washed before burying myself under the covers of my welcoming bed.

He lay on my kitchen floor and sung on and off till sunrise.

Loving you is going to kill me, therefore I’d best remain at bay.
You chose the bottle over Love, there’s nothing more to say.