Three Ton Coworker - Analgesic
"i love all things ruined to ineffectuality, weak as disease, / i love them verging toward expiration" —Gordon Massman, "1485"
From where I stood, the path sloped down into the gully where she had last been. I walked the path about once a week, always pausing at this spot to look down.
Usually, I thought about her, but that time, I was thinking about a different mistake I had made. It wasn't helping, but I couldn't stop. I suppose I used to say that a lot. Once upon a time.
Right now, I'm thinking about all the mistakes. Probably, my personal count is higher than the actual, but I've always been pessimistic. Pessimistic and enamored of confession.
Once upon a time, but what does it matter?
I walked the rest of the path, knocked the dust off my shoes, got into my car, and drove away. Before going home, I made three stops.
At the post office, the clerk seemed relieved to see me, and said, "You're cutting it a little late today, aren't you?" Then she tried to smile, but it just highlighted her frown.
At the grocery store, I handed a man an eggplant simply because I thought he looked like one—purple-skinned and bottom-heavy. As I handed it to him, I said, "Here is an eggplant; it's ripe." I wish I could have captured his look of stupid confusion.
I bought some bourbon at the liquor store. I didn't speak to the clerk there except to compete the transaction politely.
When I got home, I drank three large glasses of bourbon quickly and then passed out. I awoke several hours later in extreme pain, so I took some pain killer. No one uses the word analgesic anymore.
I will go back to the gully again next week, and I will stand on the spot. I will look at the leaves of the trees, as well as the tufts of moss and clover. If it has rained, I will listen to water trickle over the rocks. It will be quiet and peaceful, and I will look forward to doing it again next week, and the week after.