Foul Fourth Step

“What am I doing messing around with a 23 year-”

“So, why did you stop drinking?”

Groan.

“Boxers.”

“What?”

“My poor behavior made my mother cry.”

“So, you stopped drinking, cause your mother cried?”

“I looked into ways of learning how to stop.”

“What did you do so bad to make your mom cry?”

“Maybe if I add more pebbles to my stony silence, he will stop probing. I am going to be silent for five, slow steps in a row. Maybe, he will shut up. One. Two. Three. Four.”

“Well, how bad of an alcoholic were you? Did you drink every day?”

“No, I didn’t drink every day.”

“So, what did you do that was so bad, your mother-”

“I fucked men, so they would buy me drinks.”

She knows he will never touch her or look at her the same.

Regret.

Red face.

Eyes darting and lowered.

A sharp stone slips into her right cowboy boot’s hole and cuts her soft sole.

She hardens.

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