This is my first submission for Six Sentence Sunday.
He’s too lazy to spin the cap back on the bottle of bourbon.
Maybe he’s too drunk, but it doesn’t matter anyway, he thinks, since maybe, just maybe, bourbon is like wine (is it?) and letting it breathe adds to its smoky taste.
These are the things he thinks about in the cold of night, no lights on, no heat, where he wanders through their home checking locks, rattling ice, quietly mumbling to himself.
Well, not really.
He thinks about a lot of things, the places he’s been, the places he still hopes to go.
And realizes that he’s stuck here, in this house, slowly rotting from the inside from booze – and outside from dreams not realized.
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