When he walked in the house the dishes were still in the sink but the floor had been washed, and he forgot that he had washed the floor before going to the bar. He removed his pants and shoes in the washroom, keys splashing over the floor, and he pulled at a bottle of champagne that he had stashed behind the toilet – one of those romantic tributes to an old story, back when he considered alcoholism sexy.
He liked how the cold bubbles felt inside his throat when his skin was hot from the steam of the shower. He thought that he could distract his mind with the temperature of the water, like pinching your skin when getting a tattoo but with your brain. Still, he was thinking about a mural, this wild mesh of lines and curves, things that seemed contrary but had come together for the sake of the piece. Why can’t we; why shift the focus; what company is really to blame for the lack of jobs; why distract everyone with some policy that would offend some people, so that they would yell each other; why hate them, love us.
The champagne felt light, sweet. He tilted his head back and held the wet wall. Think about the feeling- eyes closed. Control, maybe thoughts aren’t meant to be directed. The bottle dropped to his feet and nearly missed his toes, the remainder of the champagne bubbling in the drain.