Man of Steel

She calls me spineless and I almost feel compelled to apologize. I kill the compulsion by inhaling deeply from my cigarette… Correction, her cigarette; I’ve never cared for menthol. I take one last gulp of rum from my glass just to make sure the it stays dead. The rum is cheap and anything but smooth, contrary to the promise made by the label on the bottle. I have to grit my teeth to prevent it from coming back up. That would only prove that I am as pathetic as her eyes alone scream that I am.

She decides to open her stupid mouth again, “Well? You don’t have anything to say to that?” She knows full well that I don’t, and probably that I even agree. I don’t give her the satisfaction of hearing me say it. I may be pathetic, but I can be just as stubborn as she can. She should know that by now. “Oh come on!” She’s getting angry “I just fucked one of your best friends in the next room and you don’t have a single thing to say about it? Fucking. Spineless.” She tosses her pack of cigarettes at me and I don’t even bother to move. It bounces off my chest and into my lap. She’s lying through her teeth. I know they were in his room. I was in the living room the entire time, and I could hear them over whatever catchy flavor of the month was coming out of the stereo, but I also know how she fucks. He couldn’t handle her even if he wanted to; not with the pain she carries into bed with her. I don’t blame him for that, because there are probably few men who can. She knows I’m one of them and that’s exactly why she hasn’t just gone home yet. She never leaves until she gets what she wants. Tonight I know I’m lonely enough to give it to her.

The last gulp of rum killed my compulsion and all other conscious thought. The rest of the night is blank from there.

I’m the first to wake up, and she’s gone when I do. Must have let herself out. Despite what the rum killed, the pain in my lower lip tells me we were still very alive, but for how long is anyone’s guess.

I stumble into the bathroom to start my hangover with a bang. I lean over the porcelain bowl and all the rum and regret contained in my stomach forces its way out through my mouth. It takes three tries to get it all. As I clean myself up in the sink I notice she’s left more than emotional marks this time around. I count two on my neck, one on my shoulder, and even one on my face. It’s a good thing I know how to apply makeup. I don’t have much time to admire her work, though, as more rum and more regret works its way back up. The rum comes up easier than it went down and then all I can do is laugh. Spineless.