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Edder -> A 500-word exercise for my Writing class (11/20/2012 1:21:59 AM)
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Henry Devereux
So I’m sitting in the kitchen last Saturday morning, instinctively in my business suit, eating breakfast and reading about my stock in Windows falling, when my girlfriend comes in. “You’re up early,” she says with an ironic smile on her face. Her dirty blonde hair is a mess and her beige bathrobe is undone. I smirk and nod. She’s walking towards me so I get up, swallow my leftover Chinese, grab two Yuenglings from the fridge, and kiss her.
She laughs but I can see something weird about her attitude. She’s avoiding eye contact with me, so I crack open the beers and place hers in her hand, clink her bottle with mine, and take a big swig. She just takes a little sip, but I’m used to this by now: she’s not a drinker. “This is the third time this week you’re drinking in the morning,” she nags. I just shrug it off and hug her from behind, to prevent her from walking off. “Let’s fuck,” I say.
And she’s reluctant, insists on talking about my drinking problem. I tell her I don’t think I have a problem, and inform her again that my friends called me Hennessey when I was younger. “But you’re not that little boy anymore! That’s not the person I fell in love with!” She’s crying up a little by this point, but I just take another gulp. “Then leave me,” I say, not even bluffing.
She seems shocked at this. “Henry,” she says evenly, despite the tears in those big green eyes, “you won’t miss me?” She’s essentially making me choose, and all I can think about is the money I never had. “Can we talk about this later?” I say as a last-ditch effort to push the matter aside. “I lost some serious cash on the stocks,” I tell her as an excuse to end this conversation.
And it’s true, too, but she won’t let it go. She just wants to put me on display and shoot down my flaws. “If you’re sad or angry, show it! About me, about the stock market, about anything!” she says, as bitter as a damn lemon. I think for a moment, and then, calmly, say “look, just leave me. I’m clearly not the same man you loved.”
“Do you love me?” she asks, broken and afraid of the answer she is going to get. Once again I’m wondering if I should tell the truth or straight-out lie, ending it right here. “Yes,” I answer honestly and she uses her sleeve to wipe her tears and walks away, probably to rest her frail body after our sixteenth fight in the past few months. I go back to reading the stocks and blindly skimming articles, focusing on what just went down here.
I can’t read at all. My folks didn’t have money when I was growing up, but they had love. Now I’m wondering if money is worth it all: all the drinking which leads to fights which lead to bitterness which leads to anger. I’m confused now, and I decide that I’m going to deal with this situation the only way I know how, so I walk to the living room, sit on the couch I got on Craigslist, take my bottle opener--the keychain kind--and crack open another beer.
-Eddie Khaymovich
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