Mixed Drinks

by Stephen Book

There are days when I have nothing left — no excuses, stories, or trite platitudes — to explain away what is so painfully obvious to me and everyone else: I am a fool’s fool. Today happens to be one of those days. And not just today, it seems, but rather the last six months of my miserable and somewhat worthless life, starting with the night I lost my mind and proposed to Beth Ann Platte, who was the first and only for me, if you know what I mean. I thought she was the one who would make me happy, but what I didn’t know then, and yet I do now, is that Beth Ann is not only a self-absorbed person, she also apparently suffers from an extreme case of paranoia, daily accusing me of cheating on her and checking my cell phone for all in-coming and out-going calls, so sure that she would catch me in the “act." The honeymoon over, the nightmare in full swing, I finally had enough of it last week and told her I was leaving. It seemed reasonable when she requested two days ago that we sit down at the dinette table, have a couple of drinks and talk about a peaceful separation; unfortunately, though, as I gaze upon her cold body lying on the floor next to mine, my last wheezing breath seeping out of my burning lungs, I understand all to late that with Beth Ann there is no such thing as a peaceful separation and a “mixed drink” can be a deadly cocktail.

6S - C3

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