I never thought I’d get this lonely. That you and this half-emptied Jack Daniels would be my only companions. My pint of Coke fizzled away after I mixed it all, downed it with whiskey. Now I throw back straight shot after shot until my words blur on the screen and the burn fades to a smooth glide like water.
Don’t send me any more boys who think my alcoholism is cool. Who take me to parties where my eyes burn red in the THC-induced clouds and my liver ferments in yeast. Where they pull out their cellphones to film my head hanging low under a funnel of foaming beer, shouting, “Worldstar! Worldstar!” Sideline the daddies who string me along while they decide if they want me or their kids’ mom. And Craigslist, use your promised anonymity to hide me from the men with anal fetishes, the men who don’t believe in love and marriage but wish to impregnate me with their fifteenth child, the men who, at age thirty-five, are still trying to get on their feet, the men with credit card debt, the men who aren’t looking for a relationship but will screw me anyway, the men who say I remind them of their ex-fiancé… or their mother.
Where is my Renaissance man, Craigslist? Send my ad, scribbled on parchment, by way of carrier pigeon to his bedroom window. Tell him to meet me at the Barn House Theatre where they put on morality plays in the winter. The final showing of Doctor Faustus begins at eight. I’ll be waiting in the lobby, wearing a ruffle, black dress, a wilted rose pinned in my hair. Direct him to blow on it, Craigslist, the magic from the cool breeze escaping his lips causing it to bloom three months before spring.
Drowning in Sorrows
Originally published November 23, 2015 in response to the Sunday Photo Fiction prompt.