My Sweetheart the Drunk

With eyes low and beautiful she wonders what time the morning curtains will slide open and ponders stretching the time between here and there.  A slender finger saunters around a martini's lipsticked-shiny-edge and tugs on the dreams of some other night's slumber.  

Head still, her eyes drift upward, lips bright and ready to speak what is about to be on her mind. "What's that?" I ask before her first word.  My gaze rests on her bare shoulder.

Tiny, tender slurs flit and flutter from her mouth.  "If I make it to bed tonight… you can have me," with an effortful wink and squeaky giggle.  Then, an abrupt turn and flailing-arm-finger-pointing, "Otherwise just leave me on the couch, over… oh… no… Here!  That's where."  "Oh, OK."

For a breath or two, the world becomes muted and slow-motioned like an outdoor-midnight-winter-minute in Montana when pillowy clouds hang low over glistening snow; sounds like you're in a closet only imagining you're outside.  Her eyes drift shut.  "Oh no, not here," I whisper-beg as she slips away.  It's not a real sleep but it might as well be.

The tv just flickers.