She couldn't usually manage to stay up long enough for him to get home. Usually, she woke up to the sound of his key scraping around the keyhole. Usually, he headed straight for his room so she would sit still and pretend like he hadn't woken her.
She hated that word. Usually. There was something so tragic about the routine. It made her sick to her stomach to think of it.
"Goddamn it, you smell like jet fuel."
Part of her only said it to break the silence. To let her know she wasn't just being creepy and watching him. She had been cleaning when he got home. The kitchen floor stuck to her socks, and the freezer drawers were next to impossible to open and close properly. Another part of her felt ill, smelling the whiskey from across the room.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
He was quiet. Strangely so. She'd never seen him quite so still either.
She knew the alcohol was hitting him hard. She knew, in part at least, why he was drinking. She hated seeing him so stressed. There was something sad about it. He tried to clean himself out, get rid of the stress, but it was still in his eyes, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes, premature wrinkles and squinting vision. It was always there.
But he wasn't there. His eyes were distant, and she knew for now he'd feel fine. But he wasn't fixing anything. He opened and closed his mouth. Put his hand on his chest, then quickly moved it to his knee as he leaned forward.
"Oh God, please don't throw up. Please. I can't clean it up right now. I'll be sick. Just -- "
"I'm fine."
"Oh. Okay."
She considered grabbing the trashcan from the kitchen, debating what he needed more. Space, company, or something else - what exactly that may be, she didn't know.
He sat with his head in his hands and tapped his fingers from between chunks of hair. She took her hand and scratched his back slowly. Trying to soothe and relax him. He leaned back and looked back at her.
"What are you thinking about?"
"You're blurry."
"It's okay."
That seemed to be enough for now.
He'd be fine. He usually was, anyway.
She hated that word. Usually. There was something so tragic about the routine. It made her sick to her stomach to think of it.
"Goddamn it, you smell like jet fuel."
Part of her only said it to break the silence. To let her know she wasn't just being creepy and watching him. She had been cleaning when he got home. The kitchen floor stuck to her socks, and the freezer drawers were next to impossible to open and close properly. Another part of her felt ill, smelling the whiskey from across the room.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
He was quiet. Strangely so. She'd never seen him quite so still either.
She knew the alcohol was hitting him hard. She knew, in part at least, why he was drinking. She hated seeing him so stressed. There was something sad about it. He tried to clean himself out, get rid of the stress, but it was still in his eyes, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes, premature wrinkles and squinting vision. It was always there.
But he wasn't there. His eyes were distant, and she knew for now he'd feel fine. But he wasn't fixing anything. He opened and closed his mouth. Put his hand on his chest, then quickly moved it to his knee as he leaned forward.
"Oh God, please don't throw up. Please. I can't clean it up right now. I'll be sick. Just -- "
"I'm fine."
"Oh. Okay."
She considered grabbing the trashcan from the kitchen, debating what he needed more. Space, company, or something else - what exactly that may be, she didn't know.
He sat with his head in his hands and tapped his fingers from between chunks of hair. She took her hand and scratched his back slowly. Trying to soothe and relax him. He leaned back and looked back at her.
"What are you thinking about?"
"You're blurry."
"It's okay."
That seemed to be enough for now.
He'd be fine. He usually was, anyway.
Really liked this piece, Brittany! Your dialogue is really convincing here, I can really picture this guy just completely drunk on the couch swaying back and forth. Great job.
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