Whiskey Girl

I couldn’t remember what this moment reminded me of. This scene– or maybe it was a feeling— seemed so familiar to me as I sneaked a glance at him while gulping the last of my drink. I wasn’t really a whiskey girl; it was the drink choice for the last love of my life. I drank it as his companion before he decided to abandon me. The scent of whiskey and cigarettes lingering in the crevices of my tiny apartment was all that I had left of him.

Since him, I’ve dated a lot of cigarette smokers because I secretly love the smell of it on their skin… how that last inhale lingers, seeping into their hair and I can still taste it on their tongues. Gio smells of the outdoors and menthol cigarettes. It’s a fitting smell for a man with a small expressive face, wild dreaded hair and brown eyes I can see right through. Unfortunately, that is where his transparency ends. I know him but I really don’t know anything about him at all. It feels like an illusion, and I know this because I invented this trick back when I was strong enough to play the game. You make them laugh, you share a story from your past and they feel like you’re a kindred spirit and they continue coming back for more. In this moment, the whiskey made me a little less aware of being played for a fool, but I like to think I am still onto him—his lies and his empty intentions.




Click here to read more check out WG’s newest chapbook: Trigger; A Downward Spiral.


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