I tipped the glass to the left, letting the whiskey sour meet the rim, and then tipped it to the right.  Ice cubes tinkled against the glass.   The ice melted, as if my gaze alone caused the physical reaction diluting my drink.  I didn’t care, there would be another.  Or two.  Or twelve.  Drunk was good, sober was bad.  A clear head reminded me of all I lost.

Which was everything. 

            My head fell back letting my brown hair cascade down my back, and allowed the whiskey a quicker trip down my throat.  If there was a burn, I didn’t feel it.  I didn’t feel anything anymore.  There wasn’t a word for what I’d become, a loss that...

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