Vodka and Butterflies

The day was yellow and dry, the sun hanging in the sky like a drunk in a doorway. She stumbled into the liquor store, the bell on the door chocking out a tired jingle.

“A bottle of vodka,” she said. Her voice was paper-thin, the kind you ball up and throw away.

The shop owner—some old guy with a face like a squeezed lemon—eyed her over the counter. “You ought to cut back, you know,” he said, like he cared, like it mattered.

She did not bother with a reply as she slid her cash across the counter and took the bottle, cool and heavy in hand. Out on the street, the city was still dying in its slow, miserable way.

Broken buildings leaned against each other like bums sharing a cigarette. The air smelled like asphalt and bitterness. Her bench was where it always was, sagging under the weight of too many years and souls trying to escape their heads.

She dropped onto it, unscrewed the cap, and tipped the vodka back. It was fire and gasoline, but she kept drinking because what else was there?

The memories came like they always did—uninvited, sharp-edged. Memories of faces and voices and laughter that once were hers.

She felt the tears start, hot and stupid, falling onto the weeds poking up between the cracks in the concrete. She swiped at her face, embarrassed, even though no one was looking.

No one ever was.

A butterfly flitted past, its wings twitching like a nervous dancer. It did not care about her or her mess of a life. Nothing did.

Peace was here, sure, but not the kind wanted. It was the kind that sneaks in after losing everything else.