Screwdrivers and Screen Doors
You took a sip from one of my coffee cups as we lounged on the patched-up sofa I salvaged from the Goodwill off Exit 19. Who needs long-stemmed glasses and champagne when you’ve got cheap vodka, orange juice, and more mugs than good luck? You were wearing the flannel shirt she bought for your birthday, the one with the rip in the seam near the armpit. The same side I like to weasel my way into when you’ve had one too many and I’ve damn near lost my mind again. I’ve forgotten how many times it’s been since you said it would be the last.
Always the same scenario. You knock, I hesitate. You promise not to stay or touch me. I invite you in. We sit on the same musty sofa as reruns of Roseanne play in the background. I reach for your hand. Your face crumples into your palms, so I sink into your shoulder. An invitation is given with a turn of your head, and you withhold mentioning the softness of her hair as your fingers run through mine, catching on coarse strands. Hands and lips search for things lost while hearts remain closed up, uncertain.
Once you scoop the flannel shirt from the shag carpet floor and lace your boots, you apologize, bow your head, and cross the threshold to the gravel drive. The screen door slams, and my eyes follow your taillights until they fade into the horizon. I never forget your face when you leave, the same pained expression as the night you positioned yourself between the minister and yellow roses, and the woman who usually filled the space by your side was buried six feet under.
Guilt and regret can lead us places we never thought we would end up. Never quite returned home, did you? Even still, the coffee cup rests on the counter next to the vodka.
