Scott Sherman
Mr. Yoest Explains to the Officers Why There May Have Been a Noise Complaint
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.
