Hearty Burgundy

I wretched with aplomb, spewing my guts out upon newly mowed lawn, mixing toxic with the summer smells grass and blossoms give up. More then cheap burgundy spewed forth as I leaned on the quiet elm for support, anxiety attached to shattered dreams convulsed desperately, joining the wine exiting my body. Again and again my stomach twisted itself trying to reverse another night of drinking. All I cared about was the nightly ritual ending  and getting some sleep, the elm just watched in silence not passing judgment not leaving me, alone.

A few hours earlier, I had been sitting at a local dive listening to Billy Joel or maybe it was someone else, I didn’t care. I only wanted the bartender to keeping filling my glass with a hearty burgundy, I was hungry to feel the grapes slide down my throat sending alcohol shivers throughout my body,  anesthetizing me from myself, erasing the cheap chalkboard my life had become.

“Another round Joe”? The bartender said, a tooth pick balancing on his cracked lip, I looked straight through him without answering , gazing at my own reflection in the mirror behind the bar, wondering who I was looking at or maybe wondering what I was looking at. “Another round Joe” the bartender said placing his hand on my shoulder and shaking me just a little. “Sure” I said, “fill it up.” the bartender topped off my glass and took two bucks from the pile of ones laying in front of me.

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