It was for the best. I kept telling myself that, and it made the days bearable. It was for the best…then I got the first postcard, and I knew I should have stayed.
One night I come home later than usual. The streets are dark and unlit in my subdivision, and I want nothing more than a glass of whiskey and the comfort of my cold bed. With the whiskey, perhaps I can forget him long enough to fall asleep without dreaming of that night, but I doubt it.
As I turn down my street, I notice cars lining both sides of the road. One of the neighbors must be having another party—they always invite me but I never stop by. I navigate around the car parked in front of my house and pull into my driveway, my mind already on the whiskey and the bed. I will drink myself to sleep staring at those postcards a
