Alcohol Therapy
By: RDV
Okay so they were major broke now. The formerly hot wife who used to parade with her legs bare and shiny, both sexes stupidly ogling at those assets, had now gotten to be a picture to avoid. In a very bad way that is. No longer was she pretty--with her face all of the time speckled with perspiration dots--quite the opposite as was insistently told of her time after time. Her hair which was slick and light before now fell frizzy on her back, if it ever fell at all. It kind of looked like all stood out like pines on her head. Even her husband had said how much it resembled an upturned floor map waiting to dry in the laundry. Needless to say the torso was much less lively. The hourglass shape had morphed into something akin to a decanter, slim on top, unspeakable all the way down. The smile was tired and most of the time fake, like spurious pants bought at imitation stores that get ripped off at the slightest use. The eyes were devoid of shine and appeared to be replaced by two black holes peering below her lids, like predators too weary and starved they’d no longer bother to pounce at their prey.
It pained to dwell on her outward looks. She danced pretty well back in the day, and she might still or not possess the knack but god, things had gone out of her and out of control now. If she had time to brood on the past, she’d rather do it when she was six feet under. Time, too late, expired, like her. Whatever desire she still had for erstwhile hobbies lay moribund now, with rekindling seeming out of the question. She was no longer among the people that knew her well. She’d retired from the knowledge longer ago than she could figure out. Her job abroad no longer hinted at welcoming her back. She had aged, her service was over. No other decent-paying job ever showed signs of taking notice of her. She was that, too invisible one could heedlessly strafe through her.
The chronically and mentally impaired son demanded utmost devotion. There was not enough stipend for a helper what with all the absence of source of income, and the husband gradually proving to be way out of value. Obsolete. Like an out-of-date device in the 29th century. They were the same pea in a pod, as the proverb goes. In her heart of hearts, she knew it pained him. But pain was part of everything after all. To endure it was their job. To add to that, there was another child in line on his way to puberty. He was considerably neglected, yes, which caused no end to her regrets. Thank god he didn’t crave for attention.
Hell, curse their mortal souls.
Assuming to be in control, tonight, she took the car keys off the peg. A binge, yes, would sound lovely. She had thought long and hard for what to do, but she’d never come across with this lapse. Just that nothing ever came out of anything, good or bad. God is good, though forgetful, she carefully added. That was the rule. Live with it.
And so she drove, going on 60, 70, uncounted in the next minutes. She braced herself fast until she pulled the brakes in front of a pub somewhere remote. Perfect getaway. Not luxurious but it would do. She got herself a martini on the rocks, which tasted like crap dissolving on her tongue. There was a touch of sourness in it, which she didn't deem artful not being a connoisseur of wine, but an amateur taster or drinker. The smoke of the bar sifted through her, slow, soft, sashaying. Even her taste’s faculty got damaged by fucking motherhood, the misery that came as its side package.
She thought of herself as a girl. None of her dreams matched what had occurred in the overall conjugal life she had conscripted herself to, unwittingly. She was in love, changed; how was she supposed to name the mess in that? How was she to foresee the devastation of a looked-for future? Between her wedding and today, the best part was still to be ransacked and revealed. But she doubted if there was any. It was like a cannibal, the marraige; only with the cannibal you know who it wants to eat between itself and the other. Her union after all turned out quite typically; a fuck-up just like any other.
Intoxication wasn’t that an efficient of an escape, temporary as anyone knew, but temporary was fine. And it lasted even within the duration of a blink. Her head thudded on the table, the throb of misery. An epiphany shot up like a launched missile. One minute she was way above exhaustion; this next one, there was an end to it as there is to this affair which she for now put behind her. One glass was all it took. It hit her like a brick wall. It felt good. This alcohol therapy. Life. She was the last person who'd hang on to those words.
For the first time in many years, a peaceful sleep descended on her.
Okay so they were major broke now. The formerly hot wife who used to parade with her legs bare and shiny, both sexes stupidly ogling at those assets, had now gotten to be a picture to avoid. In a very bad way that is. No longer was she pretty--with her face all of the time speckled with perspiration dots--quite the opposite as was insistently told of her time after time. Her hair which was slick and light before now fell frizzy on her back, if it ever fell at all. It kind of looked like all stood out like pines on her head. Even her husband had said how much it resembled an upturned floor map waiting to dry in the laundry. Needless to say the torso was much less lively. The hourglass shape had morphed into something akin to a decanter, slim on top, unspeakable all the way down. The smile was tired and most of the time fake, like spurious pants bought at imitation stores that get ripped off at the slightest use. The eyes were devoid of shine and appeared to be replaced by two black holes peering below her lids, like predators too weary and starved they’d no longer bother to pounce at their prey.
It pained to dwell on her outward looks. She danced pretty well back in the day, and she might still or not possess the knack but god, things had gone out of her and out of control now. If she had time to brood on the past, she’d rather do it when she was six feet under. Time, too late, expired, like her. Whatever desire she still had for erstwhile hobbies lay moribund now, with rekindling seeming out of the question. She was no longer among the people that knew her well. She’d retired from the knowledge longer ago than she could figure out. Her job abroad no longer hinted at welcoming her back. She had aged, her service was over. No other decent-paying job ever showed signs of taking notice of her. She was that, too invisible one could heedlessly strafe through her.
The chronically and mentally impaired son demanded utmost devotion. There was not enough stipend for a helper what with all the absence of source of income, and the husband gradually proving to be way out of value. Obsolete. Like an out-of-date device in the 29th century. They were the same pea in a pod, as the proverb goes. In her heart of hearts, she knew it pained him. But pain was part of everything after all. To endure it was their job. To add to that, there was another child in line on his way to puberty. He was considerably neglected, yes, which caused no end to her regrets. Thank god he didn’t crave for attention.
Hell, curse their mortal souls.
Assuming to be in control, tonight, she took the car keys off the peg. A binge, yes, would sound lovely. She had thought long and hard for what to do, but she’d never come across with this lapse. Just that nothing ever came out of anything, good or bad. God is good, though forgetful, she carefully added. That was the rule. Live with it.
And so she drove, going on 60, 70, uncounted in the next minutes. She braced herself fast until she pulled the brakes in front of a pub somewhere remote. Perfect getaway. Not luxurious but it would do. She got herself a martini on the rocks, which tasted like crap dissolving on her tongue. There was a touch of sourness in it, which she didn't deem artful not being a connoisseur of wine, but an amateur taster or drinker. The smoke of the bar sifted through her, slow, soft, sashaying. Even her taste’s faculty got damaged by fucking motherhood, the misery that came as its side package.
She thought of herself as a girl. None of her dreams matched what had occurred in the overall conjugal life she had conscripted herself to, unwittingly. She was in love, changed; how was she supposed to name the mess in that? How was she to foresee the devastation of a looked-for future? Between her wedding and today, the best part was still to be ransacked and revealed. But she doubted if there was any. It was like a cannibal, the marraige; only with the cannibal you know who it wants to eat between itself and the other. Her union after all turned out quite typically; a fuck-up just like any other.
Intoxication wasn’t that an efficient of an escape, temporary as anyone knew, but temporary was fine. And it lasted even within the duration of a blink. Her head thudded on the table, the throb of misery. An epiphany shot up like a launched missile. One minute she was way above exhaustion; this next one, there was an end to it as there is to this affair which she for now put behind her. One glass was all it took. It hit her like a brick wall. It felt good. This alcohol therapy. Life. She was the last person who'd hang on to those words.
For the first time in many years, a peaceful sleep descended on her.
posted by Ria D. at
10:00 PM
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