Project 2 — What’s Prose? Who knows!

Who cares? I’m drunk and it's a full moon.

Drunk Moon

by Indigo Autumn

I may or may not have been stood up.

It’s 3:22 am.

I’ve gaslighted myself into wondering if I even remembered to invite him over. It may or may not be Valentine’s Day. Or my birthday. Or a Tuesday. The frogs won’t shut up. This has happened before. This happens too often. I’m drunk off deja vu’s. I want to be worried about him but convincing myself I don’t care is the only logical option.

Sipping red wine and eating our dinners. It’s pouring here now. The frogs are croaking louder than the rain. I’ve written delicious poems and disgusting poems, and my phone is hot from checking it. His brilliant elusiveness is so sexy it entices me to edges I dare compare to girls I promised myself I’d never be or become. It’s tiring trying not to be like other girls. Text once, call once, wait. Wait. Don’t blow up his phone or his WhatsApp or his DMs. I want to. But. I wait.

I finish the bottle of wine, open another, and welcome its invitation to let my thoughts float over an ocean to my summer lover. I FaceTime him ignoring time zones to share my drunkness. I know he enjoys my honest ramblings and he never ever tells me what I said when I was drunk but it always makes him smile when I ask. We reminisce about stolen summers and alternate dimensions where we end up together and my current situation is just a fantasy — a story I never lived but probably wished I did. Fantasies are easy when wine and five thousand miles dilute reality. My smiles reveal purple stained teeth and he tells me to go to sleep.

Night slides into morning and the sun rising helps me believe he just forgot I made us dinner and he just forgot it’s a celebration. Oh by the way it’s vegan and it’s mysterious like me and my ways and him and his ways.

Were we always like this?

I’m full but I still eat every last bite from his plate. Without labels, where do we find the expiration date?

Goodnight. Good morning.

6:22 am. He texts saying he fell asleep on the couch.

The girl in me wants to ask, “Who’s couch?” The woman in me wants to say, “Come over now, there’s still time for breakfast.” The divine in me will wait until I’m sober to respond.



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