Admittedly, I was drunk when I was screaming about how tired I am of driving outside the suburbs, and that I’ve always loved living on the highest level of buildings because having the liberty to jump out the window is empowering. Yes, I was drunk off the smell of my wife on my clothes when I left her a message apologizing for always being late and giving the flowers to her shadow. In fact, every night you can find me receding into a creaking pew chair, drunk to the point where if I try to focus on the light above the kitchen table I can’t tell what's spinning. I may fume loudly when I see bottles dressed in factory orange demanding that I don’t take these pills and drink because what, you don’t think alcohol gets lonely too? Maybe alcohol feels so alone that at 3:30 in the morning it turns the TV on mute in a lightless room so that through the blue hues on the wall it can believe it’s deep, drowning in the ocean. Some days my hands shake more than my chest and I cannot screw caps off bottles or rib cages off hearts. Every night I look in the mirror thinking it’s a picture and I wonder why my wife isn’t in it, praying in the next moment she’ll move into the frame and let her hand rest on my cheek.
Mr. Yoest Explains to the Officers Why There May Have Been a Noise Complaint