Seventeen.
Seventeen bottles of beer I have drunk in the past 37 minutes.
Seventeen.
I pick up number eighteen, twist the cap off, and pour it down my throat. It’s tasteless.
I lean my head back against the wall from where I sit on the floor of my basement.
I see a football. Danny’s football. It used to be Danny’s football. Now it’s just some football my son used to hold, used to play with. It probably smelled like him. Part of me wanted to go pick it up, the other part of me didn’t wanted to be reminded of the last time we played football together.
I pick up number nineteen, and out of the corner of my eye see (Y/N)’s old dolls, something we thought we could use for our little girl someday.
But that’s not going to happen.
I know what happened. I saw their mangled, bruised, broken, dead bodies after their accident.
I pick up number twenty.
I chuckle. I was sitting outside of the community college on the steps, waiting for Soda to come pick me up. He was late; as usual.
“Yes. I it’s quite refreshing actually.” I tell (Y/N), looking up at the rain.
“Cleanses the mind?” She laughs, sitting down next to me.
“Your hair is gonna get all wet.”
“I don’t care.” She shrugs.
“I thought girls cared about their hair. Especially girls with pretty hair.”
“You really think I have pretty hair?” She laughs.
“Yeah I do.” I grin.
“You don’t seem like the type to be all cute.”
“Well, maybe I like you that much to be that type.” I grin.
“Really?” She grins, tilting her head to the side.
“Really.” I smile, leaning in as the sparks fly.
