Not a single thought was given when he opened the first bottle just a little past noon, savored the flavor and called it lunch. By three his productivity was lagging and he looked at the clock, wondering if he’d make the five o’clock deadline or just make a quick call and push out delivery till tomorrow.
Not a single thought was given when he stuck one in the drink koozie for the forty-five minute drive ahead, slightly staggering once he reached home. Ten minutes of nonsensical conversation with the wife then stop off at the fridge for another on the way out to the man cave. Half a bottle later and he was done.
Not a single thought was given when his son returned from his date, coming through the back instead of the front, finding him slouched in his recliner, head hanging as if his neck was made of rubber.
“Did you see your father?”
“Yea, he was sleeping.”
She shook her head and asked how his evening went, knowing full well he was passed out cold, but saying so would only incite a defensive leap of denial, so she said nothing instead.
An hour later she went out and looked on him, just to make sure he was still breathing, then returned to her room where she went to bed alone.
Not a single thought was given when he rolled out of bed the next morning, donned his biker wear and headed out for the day on two wheels. Leaving a hole in the screen where the cats could get out, a sink full of dishes she’d been looking at for a week; a courtyard taken over with vines and weeds, empty cupboards with nothing to eat.
She heard him coming down the road not long after he’d left, wondering if he realized there was much to be done and decided to stay and help instead; but he’d only run to the bank, walked in and put money on the dresser, told her he’d be back later, as he turned around and left.
Only a single thought was given when twelve hours later he returned, found her note that said she was done; went to the fridge and got himself a cold one, mumbled under his breath, “Crazy Bitch…”
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