Bourbon
Some questions have no answer
A lone sunbeam threads it way through the trees and illuminates the amber liquid, spreading a muted palette across the white tablecloth. Dull reds and browns, how perfect. I pick up the glass, swirl it and sniff it. The aroma stirs memories. Not good ones.
The party plays in my head like an endless film loop: Jeremy’s face zooms into the frame. “Babe, you need to try this. Just taste it, it’s a hundred years old. A hundred years!” He pushes a little glass toward me. I shake my head. “I don’t do shots, Jeremy, you know that. Not for me.” But I take a tiny sip, and it’s good. A hundred years old good. The camera pulls back and the scenes change, accelerate, more sips, laughing, dancing, then things blur out and fade to black. Party’s over. The camera cuts to real time: a tear tracking down my cheek.
I woke up naked in a house that wasn’t mine, in a bed I would never have climbed into sober. I like Jeremy well enough, but it was too soon. And I wasn’t ready in more ways than just in my head. I knew long before getting any test results. After two kids you just know. It’s a fucking mess. In every conceivable way.
My husband Rob and I had nicknames for the kids based on where we made them. Our son we called Newy for New York, even though Rob wanted to call him Homo for honeymoon. Nixed that. Our daughter is…
