I miss the warm stomach bubbles and slow obliteration of high ABV craft brew in the afternoon. I used to put smirnoff vodka in the freezer but it wouldn’t freeze, just get viscous and sludgy. You pour it in a shot glass and watch it swirl.
I hear a sharp tik-tik-tik and turn to watch this bird attack the driver’s side window of my car.
He pecks and bobs.
He sits.
His tail flicks.
He stares at his reflection.
He flies off.
He comes back. He paints my vehicle with his shit, which cascades down the white paint.
Last time I drank, I cascaded down the stairs and was knocked unconscious.
“Do you know where you are?”
The contusions are still numb, purple and yellow after more than a month of healing.
I close my eyes, thinking about fireball shooters. I could walk to the store and put two in my pockets. I wouldn’t get drunk off of just two. No one would notice.
I could get three.
I think about the MRI machine at the hospital. The radiologist was terse and impatient, asking me again to hold still.
I wouldn’t tell the registrar my name. I said it was “Kendra Bee”.
I’m still paying that hospital bill off.
I walk to the hose and turn it on, placing my thumb over the flow of water. I turn it on the bird who flies away. I spray my car door. Then I douse myself. The water is colder than I wanted it to be. My shoes and hair are dripping wet.
I turn off the hose and walk inside to take a shower. The bird hops back onto my car as I close the front door.
Shana Naugle is an adjunct professor and a mother living in the Midwest.
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