Feb. 7th, 2007

not_that_spike: (sad Spike)
Oh yeah: he remembers what this is like. He remembers what it's like to be alone, and he also remembers how easy it was for him to get used to it at first, when he waited and waited for Julia and she didn't show up, and she wasn't at her apartment and there was nothing to do but go off by himself. That was a long time ago and he's way past harboring resentment over it: Julia's gone and he's got Beth and Beth Junior.

It's just that they're not here now and... he really misses them. He didn't sleep last night. He kept waking up and reaching over to find the bed empty and then sleep would desert him. Or he'd wake up and look at the clock and think it was time for a diaper change or a feeding, but Junior wasn't there for it. The small solace was that no matter where they were, she'd be wanting those things so his instincts hadn't necessarily gone bad. It was just hard.

And now it's still hard, and he moves restlessly from the bedroom to the nursery to the bedroom again, lying down and reading. But Yeats is too depressing and he doesn't feel much like his old Tao of Jeet Kune Do standby and he's not going to watch movies without Beth here because that's the thing they do together. Instead, he opts for the living room/kitchen combo where he... takes all the books off the shelf and puts them back in no particular order, looks out the window into the night sky, tests the couch in three different positions with the pillows here or there or on the floor, goes into the kitchen and makes himself a cup of coffee he really doesn't need, eyes the high chair wistfully, then gives up. There comes a point when resisting the inevitable just doesn't work for him and this... is about it. There's a bottle of tequila in the kitchen; he takes it out of the cabinet and lines up two shot glasses, then sits at his usual seat at the table. One shot glass goes in front of him, and one goes where Beth usually sits. He doesn't engage in any pretend conversation or any of that shit; that's so far from his style that on any other day thinking it would make him laugh.

Tonight, it doesn't: he fills both glasses, raises his to hers, and drains it. Then he switches them, raising the second glass to the empty one. It doesn't take any time at all for that one to be gone.

He refills them both and goes through the whole thing again. After the fourth shot of whiskey -- he never drinks like this any more, not since well before Junior was born -- it's about all he can do to make his way from the kitchen back into the living room where he lies down on the couch and knows he'll fall asleep almost immediately. The last thought he remembers before sleep blissfully claims him is that he's going to sleep out here the whole time they're gone, because the bed doesn't work for him when she's gone.

In the morning he'll have a hell of a hangover, but he'll probably be glad for it. It'll give him something else to focus on.


not_that_spike: (Default)

June 2009

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