Once year I smash a bottle of Southern Comfort on the ground. She would hate that, I hope, it was her favourite and her favourites were sacrosanct. The pleasure it gives me is short but large though largely without solace. I look at the shards and sticky liqueur and say it’s a metaphor, that it’s symbolic. I say that, but it’s not, it’s wasteful, scattered thoughts, passions, anger and obsession. I hurt myself in ways she would love and say it’s expression. Of what I don’t know, but once a year I smash a bottle and remember being broken.
Jonah stares into the mirror with magnetic repulsion, scowling joyfully at the reflection of his nemesis. I hate you so much, he says. The words leave a bitter ambrosial tang upon his tongue as he repeats them with a steady mantric affluence. I will kill you, he ventures and the nemesis just smiles, benign, leaving Jonah feeling defeated and resentful. He turns away, seeking solace in absence, but still he sees those eyes that read like a why and hears the voice delivered in his tone, holding disconcerting diatribes that he keeps trying to disown. Together they are alone.