Somewhere between shot five at Ethan’s apartment and shot eight at the party, I had passed my limit. Limits are important, they’re the framework of societies, but occasionally the real art and the real truth lay outside of the limits. Unfortunately, outside of the limits there are also heightened senses and the leftovers of heartbreak I thought I had purged the last of months ago. The heartbreak rested at the back of my throat and it burned, but I wanted to keep it down. Keeping the pain down was better than having to deal with it coming up.
“I love him,” I sobbed into the toilet bowl. “I don’t understand how he can just sit there and look at me and not miss me like I miss him. It’s like a—”
The second half of the simile was lost into the toilet bowl as Fireball crashed up my throat. We had run out of the vodka before getting to the party and I had been too drunk to refuse whatever was dropped in front of me.
When the wrenching stopped I pressed my forehead against the toilet seat. The water settled and looked almost like a yellow and orange Jackson Pollock painting.