Killian
I line the bottles up next to one another on the kitchen bench and stare at them.
And they stare back at me.
It doesn’t make the decision any easier.
Shall I drink from left to right, right to left, or in alphabetical order? It’s a fucking tough choice, and one I’m prepared to make.
Except, which way shall I go? Will it actually make a fucking difference, or am I just being a total dickhead here?
I don’t really want an answer to that question. Self-criticism can be so fucking destructive, but not as destructive as total fucking lovesick anguish though. But that’s another story altogether.
Fuck it. I close my eyes and grab a bottle.
Ah, the Rampur Single Malt. If I have to start somewhere, I may as well start simple.
I stare at the first glass I pour for what seems like an eternity.
Why is it that time has the ability to change depending on the circumstance? I mean, it should always be the same, and yet there are times where it feels like it’s fucking flying along and others where it’s barely moving at all.
The briefest possible internal struggle ensues, and ultimately, the drink wins. I close my eyes and click my tongue.
Fucking brilliant.
Light. Fluffy. Fruity.
It was a real stroke of genius to clear Rebecca out of her whiskey. If she’s going to have a baby, she really shouldn’t be consuming any fucking alcohol.
Vague memories surface of reading something about alcohol and pregnancy not mixing. Best I start looking after her interests.
So, she may not have agreed yet, but heck, the way she came on me before and stared at my cock, she’s just about there.
It’s only a matter of time, as far as I can tell.
I won’t rub my hands together just yet, but I’d bet Ida on it; she’ll be here in the morning, ready to agree.
I down the next glass of whiskey and start to pace the room.
Not only are my taste buds on fire, my entire body is also burning brightly. She ignited a flame of passion, and boy did I have to struggle against the greedier parts of myself to walk away from her.
My thoughts drift to Jameson. It’s strange, but Jameson and Rebecca are like night and day, sun and rain, the yin and the yang—they go hand in hand.
I’m sure I’ve got a bottle somewhere.
Quickly, I stride over to my cabinet where I stash all the good stuff. And there it is, right at the back.
It’s a bottle of Jameson, and not just any bottle. It’s the bottle from the year of the conference—the year we met.
With shaking fingers, I put the bottle down.
Shall I?
I shake my head.
No fucking way.
I vowed not to get hurt again. If I drink this stuff, I’m drinking to something that’s not there.
I mean, sure, we’ve had a real fucking hot time together real fucking recently. But I don’t need a fucking repeat of what happened last time.
If I hand myself over entirely—hand my heart over and everything—there’s very little fucking chance it’ll turn out well.
One broken heart in a lifetime is plenty, thank you very much.
Instead of the Jameson, I can drink something else. Plenty of alcohol around in this wee cottage.
Who am I kidding? Fucking Bushmills it is. That’s one Irish whiskey that’s never done me wrong.
Maybe I should get a job in fucking advertising.
By the time I’ve had a few, my nerves are a little calmer and my thinking’s a little foggier.
That still didn’t seem to help one fucking bit.
This is no fucking good. What the fuck am I doing here alone in my cottage?
If I stay here any longer by myself, I’ll be doomed to fucking be here forever.
No—forget it.
I can’t be thinking like that any longer.
It’s that type of thinking that leads to trouble—every fucking time.
I’m just fine here on my own.
As for Becks, she’s about to agree to enter into an arrangement with me—an arrangement which will involve a lot of no-strings-attached fucking.
Not bad. It’s like a “friends with benefits” type of situation.
It’s much less risky than getting into all sorts of fucking heart-risking trouble.
With a sigh, I open the front door and breathe in the cool night air.
There’s a strange clicking sound somewhere close by, and I need to go and investigate. It’s coming from the back of the house.
It doesn’t take me long to work out what’s going on. Ida’s managed to open her stable door and is walking around the backyard.
In the process, she’s knocking over various bits and pieces. A garden rake bites the dust, a bucket gets kicked, and bottles in the recycling container are tipped over.
“What’re you doing?” I think my speech may be a little slurred.
Ida stops and looks at me.
“Don’t you give me that accusing look, young lady.” I point my finger at her. For some reason, there seems to be two of her. “I’m not the one who’s out of my stable.”
The world is spinning a bit as well. Is it going counterclockwise or clockwise? Too fucking hard to tell.
Which fucking way is which again?
My horse nudges me, and I nearly lose my balance.
“Giving me a sobriety test, are you? Newsflash, missy: I’m not drunk.”
Her look speaks volumes.
One of those volumes begins with the words: You’ve had way too many, my friend, to have an independent opinion on any matter.
“You don’t know what it’s like to have your fucking heart broken,” I grumble, kicking the bucket she knocked over.
She snorts and stomps with her right hoof, which I interpret to mean: That just goes to show how little you know about me and other living creatures, you selfish solipsist.
Ida’s vocabulary might be more extensive than I realized.
I can’t let myself be intimidated. No, sir.
“Don’t you take that tone with me, missy. I still feed you and look after you. A little respect is the least you can show me.”
In response, Ida turns away from me, leaving me to stare at her backside.
“How very mature of you, Ida. I’m just about finished with this conversation.”
Not fair, I know, but she’s making me mad.
Ida pays me no mind and just walks away.
“Don’t you treat me like I’m invisible, you…” I’m searching for the right words, but they fail me.
Aren’t I supposed to be a fucking writer?
I mean, I should be able to wield words any which way I want, any time I want. And yet right here, right now, I can’t think of a fucking suitable thing to say.
“Come back here at once, you temperamental harridan.”
Ida stops.
Maybe I should lower my voice.
With Ida’s behind still pointing in my direction, I walk up to her and grab her by the halter. She pulls her head away.
It’s not like her to hold a grudge.
“Okay.” I pat her on the neck. “Maybe you do know what it’s like to have your heart broken. All the more reason for you to be sympathetic to my current state.”
Another snort, this time a softer one. I’m sure it says: Broken hearts suck, my friend. But we get over them.
“I know, I know. But I don’t want it to happen again. She’s not going to do it again. I’m going to make sure of it.”
Her soft nose nuzzles into me. I’m pretty sure she’s saying: Falling in love is about taking a chance. It’s like galloping up to a jump and wondering what will happen.
“Really?” I start leading her back to the stable. “I thought it was something about jumping off a cliff and either floating on the back of a cloud or hitting the ground with an almighty thud.”
She shakes her head violently, nearly knocking me off my feet. I think she means to say: You fool. Horses don’t think in human terms. Horses have their own analogies.
Fair point.
“Bottom line, Ida, I don’t want to go through fucking heartbreak again, ever.”
Ida nods.
Of course. Who does? Life’s about taking a chance, and well, maybe fucking up. Then you pick yourself up again and find something else to take a chance on. But if you don’t take a chance, well, what’s the point of being alive?
“Ida,” I begin, and rouse on the gentle giant, “I never knew you were one to use profanity.”
This time, her snort has bits of snot flying into my face.
“Lovely,” I mumble and push her into the stable.
I grab an armful of hay.
“You want to share a drink with me?”
She gives a definite shake of the head and a stomp of her left hoof in case I was in any doubt as to what she was trying to tell me.
“It’s not that bad, really,” I start, but I stop when I look into her eyes.
Destroying your body by drinking yourself stupid won’t fix anything. It doesn’t fix heartache or any of the other shit you think it fixes.
I throw the hay into her stable.
“I know, Ida,” I mumble and stare at her for a bit longer. “I know. But what else am I going to do? What else do I have going, really?”