Art: Elina Ghanbari
GOOD NIGHT
When Tom walked into his kitchen it was lit by the same fluorescent light he’d left on when he went to the bar. It was part of the ritual. Leave the light on so that Drunk-Tom could find his way into bed at around 1am. It drove the electric bill up, since it stayed on until morning, when he nursed himself out of bed with water and Advil to the sound of his alarm.
The only thing that ever changed between Tom’s apartment door and his bed was his dog, a little welsh corgi. Her name was Honey and she had once been a part of his rehabilitation program, back when he was regularly seeing a therapist and attending AA. When he was doing well.
She walked alongside him, every step of the way to his bedside, and then hopped up beside him while he yanked the worn brown boots from his feet. She sat patiently while he undressed.
*
At some time past ten, when Tom was well down the bottle, he had wandered into a parking lot. He bummed a cigarette off of a blonde woman whose makeup was running. She sniffled every now and then and didn’t say much, but he didn’t ask her what was wrong. He already had his cigarette, burned nearly down to the butt. She pulled another cigarette out of the pack before stamping out the one hanging between her lips. He watched as long pink fingernails dug into the carton and caught hold of a yellow paper end.
“Wanna go somewhere?” She slurred her words between smoke yellowed teeth.
“I don’t have that kind of money,” he told her.
“I meant a bar, you pig.” He watched as she stomped and staggered down the slope of the parking lot, ass waving in tight jean shorts.
“I don’t have that kind of money, either,” he shouted. She couldn’t hear him or didn’t want to.
*
Tom thought it must have been nearly midnight by the time he walked into the cemetery on the river. It probably had a name he’d never bothered to learn. More importantly, it was the place he’d learned to drive his cousin’s motorcycle, where he’d kissed Kyla Frisbie, and where he’d smoked his first cigarette to impress Carl Weygand and his gang. He squinted as he ran his fingers over the graffiti and key-scratched etchings of names on the back of a mausoleum.
It had always seemed special to the local teens, who, he saw, had kept up the tradition of fucking on and vandalizing the little corner of paradise. Fresh graffiti, cigarette butts, and used condoms littered the corner. He’d always thought the attraction to the mausoleum had to do with the way the graves near it seemed to circle around, lending their ears to the sounds coming from it. Coughing. Gasping. Laughter.
Tom wandered up to one of the stones. Lydia Jacobs. The stone said that she was a devoted mother, loving wife. He unzipped his fly and let loose. He’d had to piss for what felt like two hours.
*
A flat pillow sat at the head of Tom’s double bed. That’s where he put his head when he’d stripped off his clothes. They still had the hot smell of work, along with alcohol, tobacco, and a little piss that didn’t quite make it out of his shorts. Honey sidled up beside him and laid down. She fitted herself comfortably against his side.
“Why?” he asked her, as he’d asked a hundred times before. There was no answer because he knew the answer, but the asking was the important part. A few tears streamed down his face and Honey scooted up the blanket to lick them away.
“The worst,” Tom choked out between sobs. Honey kept licking his face, a warm and soft type of attention, even if it was wet and gross.
He lifted his hands, calloused and covered in dirt. They sank into her plush fur easily, and for a moment he could feel the tears slow. Then he tightened his grip and started to sob harder. Soon she began to whimper, then cry, but he didn’t let go. He cried himself to sleep, soaking her fur, and the morning found him holding her tight to his chest.
About the author:
Alex Everette is a Boston based writer working on an English degree. He is also the managing editor for The Bridge at Bridgewater State University. What free time he has is split between between witchcraft, hiking, and his pets. His writing can be found in Up The Staircase Quarterly and Into The Void Magazine.
Art: Elina Ghanbari
In the artist’s words:
ojalart.com & internetvoid
Her Instagram account is: https://www.instagram.com/__