you spent the evening unpacking books from boxes

“She exhaled cigarette smoke directly into my face. I didn’t mind. I never mind. Her breathe had a slight hint of cheap whiskey, and somehow, I could still smell her perfume. Maybe because I hadn’t showered today, and washed away her smell or maybe the fact she soaked herself in the stuff every morning before leaving for work. It was a sickly smell. Like her personality. Sickly.

Sickly like the sweets we used to eat when we were kids, remember? You remember the ones? We couldn’t get enough of them, and then, after we’d gorged ourselves, it would be weeks until we could even stand the sight of the wrappers they came in.

See, it was the same with Delilah. I craved her when I wasn’t with her.

“I can’t stand it Del. I.. Oh god, my nose is bleeding. Come back? I hate it, I hate you. No, I love you. Fuck.”

The messages I left on her machine were often garbled and left after I’d finished half a bottle of vodka, or forced several lines of cocaine up my nose. Fucking Del was always better when I wasn’t sober.

Infact, anything involving her was better when I wasn’t sober. The arguments, especially. I’d beg her to stay, even though I knew I couldn’t stand to have her around for much longer after sex. Maybe I was just lonely. Or maybe I was trying to convince her, and more importantly myself that I did care for her on some level. That when I uttered those three words just before climax, I actually meant them. Bullshit, of course it was. I didn’t love her and she didn’t love me, but where was the harm in pretending? So I’d beg her to stay, and she’d start to get restless and begin to dress, muttering excuses under her breath in the way that she did. Then the arguments would start as I began to rack up another line of coke.

“You’re high. You’re always fucking high.” She’d hiss. And then the yelling would start.

“So what. You’re always drunk.” I’d spit. She’d light a cigarette, and slam the door behind her.

Of course I’d call her. Four, maybe five times. Each time leaving a message that she’d delete before listening to. It was almost routine, the way Del and I.. well, the way we happened. Like the powder I forced up my nose, and rubbed into my gums; she was addictive.

Her glass sat beside the bed, next to the window. Rimmed with a bright red lipstick smear, it knew the touch of her lips better than I did. It knew how Delilah tasted of the cheap whiskey that masked her breath.

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