I told Chelsea that I hadn’t slept with him-at least, not in that sense. When, after we’d drained our coffees, I stood to walk away I winced from the sharpness in my abdomen.
The five-day Monopoly marathon was over, there was still nothing to do, undead or otherwise, so I tried to get drunk; obliterated, actually. But when your blood no longer pumps and your stomach and liver and brain can no longer be flooded with vodka, you are doomed to an eternity of crushing sobriety, and that, in the end, is the worst part of being a living dead.
I asked you what was wrong. You said, “I can’t get drunk enough.”
Drunk on the couch again, but this time I can hear thunder outside.
Wonder if I’ll forget this night.
During one drunken night I went online and must have bought all kinds of stuff because I keep getting packages in the mail now.
Why exactly did I join the Ham of the Month club?
For twelve long agonizing months he had battled the rapacious disease and kept it at bay. Tonight though, bronze token in hand, he planned to drink his way back into the familiar comfort of oblivion.
Then again, what made him spin? His head around his shoulders spun all night,spinning and rotating around the axis of his mind, a moon to earth, a moon with many craters, many craters indeed.
A beautiful butterfly lands on Billy’s bruised cheek. Billy’s father staggers near and Billy cringes—the butterfly flies away.
I was pretty drunk and so was everybody around me when a woman came to me to offer her services for money. I told her I can’t because I am HIV positive. She did not even blink and said: so am I.