Being drunk from too much wine is very different from any other sort of intoxication. There's a familiar nostalgia that permeates my mind as the blush moves from the glass to my cheeks, leaving me feeling far more romantic than I've ever been while sober. I make it a point to only drink wine while I'm alone. I can't handle anyone knowing that I get even remotely involved in anything emotional, because I am cold and meticulous and calculating and sure. Tonight, I am drinking wine alone in my kitchen, sitting on the counter with crossed legs as I watch water boil for tomorrow morning's tea.
     I'll always remember, in the most unsentimental method of memory, the night that you walked in on me with my bottle. A hard day at work, a fight with my parents, and a few too many cigarettes had me on edge and all I wanted to do was cook a four-course meal for someone. I got back to my shoebox apartment and proceeded to rip every pot and pan from the clapboard cabinets and sling them onto the faux-marble countertops, denting the painted plastic. I stood over a simmering skillet, alternately dousing my throat and the searing red meat, until I'd prepared a feast fit for anyone else but me. The boilers continued to roll, collecting white foam that bubbled around their glass lids and slid down onto the cooktop as I melted to the ceramic tiles. The stove hissed and whistled as simmering became overcooking and good intentions became less and less prominent in my mind. The warmth of the wine flooded my face and mind until I couldn't move or hold my eyes above half-mast. I was still in my skirt, pantyhose, tailored coat, and diamond earrings when I looked past your feet when they invaded my kitchen. Startled, you turned off the stove and wiped its watery eyes before turning to me, placing your hands on my shoulders. I don't remember logic or inhibition, but I pulled you to the floor with me and you didn't resist. I offered you the bottle and you accepted, taking a quick nip from its depths and placing it just out of my reach. As you turned around, I placed my face near enough to yours to serve as bait for something you'd been fishing for, and you fell in step--hook, line, cliche. I stopped your words with my lips, letting your excuses pour down my throat and warm me all over again. We must have been there for hours, kissing and kissing and kissing and warming the cold floor with our desperate endeavors.
    The kettle whistles on cue, as if protesting my lack of regard for it, but in this moment, I am lost again. You've been six feet under for almost a year now, sleeping in the finest cabinet your parents could afford and I've knocked on your grave every day since you left. My best friend, boys like you don't exist anymore--boys who'll stay sober and let me kiss them for hours and patient boys who wait for an invitation to let their fingertips wander. I felt joy with your hands around my waist; beauty, with your lips pressed hard against my neck; comfort, with my shoulders squared at a quarter-angle to yours; and peace, as you rain down on me.

Labels: boys, kissing, sadness, wine