Abby
My apartment is dark when I finally get home tonight. It still smells faintly of
fresh paint from the new coat that my landlord put on, but I can still sense the
lingering scent of smoke, too.
I decide to avoid the harsh glow of the kitchen lights as I plop the wine glass
that’s been tucked under my arm onto the counter island, followed by the bag of
takeout food that I picked up on my way home.
It’s still warm, the grease beginning to seep through the bag as the faint smell of
garlic and onions permeates through the air. On any other night, I might be
delighted to dig in; but honestly, I have no appetite tonight. Even the thought of
Enter title…
food makes me sick after everything, after all of the failed dishes. But I know I
need to eat, and if I don’t, I know I’ll regret it later.
For a moment, I dig through my cupboard for a plate and some silverware, but
eventually decide to opt out of the plate.
The cork gives a subtle pop as I open the wine. No glass, I decide. Not tonight. I
take a swig straight from the bottle, the sharp taste of alcohol momentarily
cutting through the numbness. It’s a start.
I crash onto the couch, the plush cushions a welcome comfort after being on my
feet all day. The TV flickers to life with a soft buzz a moment later, and I navigate
N*****x to drown myself in a world away
time passes. Hours, maybe. I feel like I’m caught
cheap movies, cheap wine, and even
the disdainful look
playing
movies on the screen.
whisper to myself
when I was so sure that I would win.
lost, either; it’s that
had, insults were thrown, and
were ignored.
tomorrow, I’ll be a culinary laughingstock. Hell,
out of
I can’t even bear to glance at
I know I’ll be barraged with a chorus of sympathies that will
worse. Right now, I just want to hide my head in
some point, the bottle of wine finally empties. I don’t
head is enough proof.
into the kitchen, where another bottle waits for
too, and make my way back to the living
standing in the doorway
a romance scene on the TV, that I
back of my
just going to wallow in misery, or are you going to keep
forward?”
presence is like a slap to the face, or a rush of cold
It takes me completely by surprise
my grasp, wine splashing onto the carpet—a
and nearly fall onto the tile
kitchen
out loud as I grab the towel off of the
and dabbing it into the
spread. “Now I’ve spilt
really your main concern, Abby?” My wolf’s voice is
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