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‘You’re emotionally dead.’

One sip and a long sigh.

‘You’re intellectually impaired.’

Two sips and a soft grunt.

Vodka and beer are two drinks that should never be mixed. Their drinkers should also be kept apart. But who knew that he and me would never be a picture of compatibility.

A framed photo of our sunburnt, smiling faces taunts me. I feel like smashing it to pieces.

Two more sips and I release another volley.

‘I’m not going to your sister’s wedding.’

He tips his glass at me and swallows more than he can.

‘Cheers to that. Witches aren’t allowed anyways.’

I reach for the peanuts. He flinches. His own words have made him nervous.

Two ice cubes are dying in my glass. I rescue one, crushing it beneath my teeth.

‘Does that mean your mother isn’t going either?’

I want to bite my tongue. His mother is a kind, lovely woman. Her only fault is that he is her son.

He pours what’s left in the bottle. The foam rises but doesn’t spill over. His lips disappear beneath it. Three gulps and an irritating smirk.

‘At least no one’s a druggie in my family.’

That’s a hit below the belt. He’s referring to my older brother, addicted to painkillers.

Soda bubbles swim in my glass, escaping the lemon juice I slowly add. A sour taste already fills my mouth.

‘I’m glad we don’t have children. Can’t bear to tolerate more of you.’

His eyebrows arch emphasizing the lines on his forehead. This is always a touchy subject.

He pops open another bottle. Its mouth meets his. He swiftly downs it without taking a breather.

It’s late. I’m restless too. One large shot of vodka will do.

We rise and kiss each other good night.

Tomorrow evening we’ll start anew.

A young boy’s search for God ends in a surprising place. Mama Is My Savior reveals God in a familiar face.

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7 Comments on “I’m Vodka, He’s Beer-Short Story

  1. I wonder for how long have they been doing this every evening. And how much longer will it last.

  2. Hahahaha I am dying laughing.
    Every comeback(xD personal attack) is so funny. Thanks for the wonderful story ma’am.

  3. Pingback: Killer Kanha Came Calling - Short Story | It Ain't Right Till I Write

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