black chevrolet

"Your blood-alchohol level is definitely over the limit.  You're not fit to drive, let alone write."

"What are you talking about?  I'm not drunk; I'm just a little tired.  Can't you tell a tired man from a drunk one?"  

Oh, I didn't know there was a difference. Sorry. I swing around the chair and face the opposite wall.  The computer screen glows purple on half the face I see reflected in the window glass.  The other half isn't there. I'm not drunk.  It's obvious.  I'm delirious.  Or something stupid like that.

The rain continues to fall outside the window, raindrops streaking the glass, slithering down where half the face should be.  The purple glows in the silence.  Somewhere in the background a quavering woman's voice echoes, singing, singing of a painful night behind the wheel, painful tears where happiness should have been found in the darkness and rain next to the freeway.

It's her own damn fault for not staying where she was and waiting patiently.  Screw her.  I turn back to the purple screen and alt-q.  The silence becomes deafening.  I get up from the desk chair, walk to the black window and peer out into the sheet of falling rain.  Take a deep breath.  Remember not to be foolish.  For the present is where reality lies, not in the past, no matter how vividly the past may be brought to life.  Those memories belonged to those times, were relevant to those times only, must not be dredged up from a contented grave...must not....they turn evil and consume all....