I am drunk. Internally I discern that I should have
allowed the champagne to cool instead of leaving it in the fridge for fifteen
minutes. Puccini arias still achingly swell into the impressionist art
adorning the walls of my bedroom. I snide I feel hurt. It is august. It is hot
as fuck out. I try not to picture Harmony’s wedding. I try not to picture her
gangsta brother with the long hair standing next to the registry and welcoming
patrons as they arrive and smile and shake each other hands and welcome each
other into the building. I try not to picture her mom entering the sanctuary
with a pinned corsage, her tilted to the side wondering what happened to her
little girl. I try not to picture Harmony spending seemingly hours scrutinizing
every solitary optical facet of her almond colored feature between blinks. I
wonder if her girl scout mentor is in the pew waiting for her protégé to
arrive.
I think about all this as Mimi breaks out into an aria
of pain and of hurt and the champagne I am drinking straight from the emerald esophagus
of the bottle taking intermittent swigs.
I think about all this time how I have lost her.
How I have lost her all over again.
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