Fun gimmick to get the creative writing juices flowing. Write a story with each sentence starting with the next letter in the Alphabet beginning with A and going through to Z. Additionally, ask someone to give you a random subject. I was given “eggs.”
Admittedly, it was another abysmal start to the day, as I had a terrible hangover from the previous night. Binging at my age begins to look more pre-Alcoholics Anonymous than it does enjoyable. Cravings had to be satiated and Whiskey had become my one true companion. Drinking helped, I guess, with the pain, at least in the moment.
Everywhere I looked something reminded me of her. Flowers arranged how she left them in front of the window overlooking our pollution-filled city view. Glasses left on the bedside table. Her scent, that’s what got me the most. I go in the bathroom, the kitchen, anywhere, and I smell her. Just takes a brief intake of that familiar aroma and the memories come piling in. Knowing I’ll never get the accompanying smile – it sends me back to the bottle every night.
Love, what is it, but fleeting and temporary? Maybe, that’s poetic though. Never does last because we don’t either. Oh, what am I doing? Philosophizing on a hangover day? Quite the Whiskey, I’d say.
Rain begins to fall outside, which seems appropriate. Sliding off the bed, I move downstairs, past one of my painted portraits of her. That portrait in particular was my one-year anniversary gift to her. Unknown to me at the time, she was diagnosed that same day. Vying for more time with her, I brought her to every specialist possible, but it was all for naught.
With rain still pitter-pattering outside, I move to the kitchen and get a skillet out.
Xanax helped for the months after, but a friend told me to get off it before I got addicted; that feels somewhat ironic now.
Yolk fills the skillet, as I turn the burner down to medium. Zany hangover mood and all, this was our ritual every morning and since she left, I still do it, one broken egg at a time.