I bang about in the liquor cupboard, not caring who I disturb at this late hour. When you need a drink, you need a drink, you know? I rummage and discard the brandy, the vodka, the gin. I want the hard stuff, the good stuff, the stuff that’ll punch me straight in the gut, burn my throat and help me forget. I want the scotch, goddammit, where’s the scotch?
I find it, lurking at the back, hidden behind the rum. Sophia must’ve hidden it again. The stupid bitch, she’s always taking my stuff and hiding it, thinking I don’t notice but I do, I’ve known about it for ages, I’m just biding my time, waiting for the moment, the opportune moment to get her back and pound her skull into mush. Is that the right phrase? ‘The opportune moment’? It sounds right, but when I try to say it out loud the words come out in a jumble, I can’t get my mouth to form that long ‘o’ sound. Fuck it, who cares? I’ve only had a couple, and that last one at the bar went straight down my shirt anyway, some idiot who’d had one too many knocking me as he passed. I showed him, though. I’ve got the bloody knuckles to prove it.
The bottle clinks against the glass as my liquid lady friend chugs out. A little more. A little more. It’s missing something though, there’s something missing here. ICE. I need ICE. I almost shout the word as my mind clicks into place, and stuff a fist into my mouth to suppress my laughter. Shh, David! Sophia is sleeping, you can’t wake her, the fucking queen she thinks she is. God forbid you wake her and face her wrath. The gold bands around our fingers are the only thing we have in common these days, and even then it’s practically worthless. I screw around, she screws around, although I would definitely deny that in a law of court. Wait, no – a court of law. Yeah, that’s it. Heh.
I use the prongs to plop the ice into my drink because I’m classy, and classy people use prongs. Although when some of the scotch splashes out of my glass, I remind myself that classy people probably have butlers to fix them their scotch on the rocks when they come home at 3:00 am in need of a drink after a long evening of very heavy drinking. But like I said, that last one at the bar was wasted, really. So I’m owed this one. But before I have the chance to knock it back, I hear a sigh from somewhere behind me, and I know it’s her before I even turn around.
She’s stood in the doorway wearing her robe, arms folded across her chest and a look of utter contempt on her face. Who would have thought I’d marry a woman like that?
“Yes?” I say, although the ‘s’ sound at the end is slightly slurred. I like it though, and I drag it out a little longer, so it sounds more like, “Yesssssssssssh?”
Sophia grinds her teeth while she eyes up the stains on my shirt, and for a second I lose my balance and stumble forward. I’ve always said this house was built on a slope, but Sophia never believed me. But here’s the proof!
“When you’ve quite finished, perhaps you’d be so kind as to take the spare room tonight?” Sophia says, barely able to hide her disgust. “And then at least I’ll be spared a night of inhaling your rancid breath.”
I lunge at her, careful not to spill any more of my drink, and grab at her robe. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to sign the divorce papers when I pick them up from our lawyer tomorrow? Then at least I’d be spared a lifetime of your self-righteousness and smarmy attitude?” I try to glare, but can’t seem to focus on her face. She prises my sweaty hands off her robe, and staggers backwards.
“It would be my pleasure!” she hollers, before turning on her heel and dashing back up the stairs.
I cheer loudly as she leaves, and down my drink in one, rocks and all.
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