Copyright © 1997 Miron Schmidt.
Revision 4.
Written on 1996/OCT/7.

Yes... let me make you smile.
There. Feel better? Good.
Good.
Love your smile.

Rushing, dark. Shapes. And the rain, and, ow! a twig! Where is she? Where are you?

No, don't get up. Sit, sit. Don't shake: all is well now. Stroke your hand, see?
Love your smile.

Still running; whipping rain. Where is she? Oh, Jesus! Left her in the rain. She's cold, must be cold. I'll go back.

No no no! Don't go. Please. Please. I'll change, I'll do, really. I love you, please don't go.
Don't... slam...
Slam the door in my fucking face, will you, bitch? Right in my fucking face. Aw, she's gone anyway.
Don't you ever come back, fucking bitch!

No, but she was here, I'm sure. So sure. But it's still raining and would I... no, I'd never leave her here, in the rain. Where are you?

She's right, damn her! Stop. Stop, I'll stop. I'll quit. Just that last... no. Heh. It's always that one last bottle, isn't it?
Not this time, I'll show you.
I'll pour it down the drain.
Just hold it a while, then pour it down the drain.

Where?

Dozed off. But it's still here, in my cramped hands. Keeps them warm. No, I'll just sit here a while; too lazy to get up now.
Then I'll pour it down. The.
Fucking bitch.

She wouldn't have, she wouldn't have, she wouldn't. Never leave me, and with all the rain.
She wouldn't.

Oh, it's empty. Must have emptied it. I feel great! See, I did it.
I did it.
All gone now. My hands aren't shaking, I did it.
They're all gone now.

She left me. I'm a monster.

Know what? I think I'll cry a little and go to sleep.
Tomorrow, I quit.
Tomorrow.
Maybe tomorrow.