Every time before the feeling was exactly the same. The names were different, but the feeling was the same. That feeling in my chest and stomach. Evil butterflies swooping dark, not the kind that make giggles. This time everything else seems familiar. Except there are no butterflies. After Romania and the preschool incident, this almost seemed inevitable. Like I need alcohol to cope, she needed new male attention. And she will say “fuck it” to everything else. Your marriage, me, they don’t matter. We all have a drug of choice.
All the Fiction I Care to Remember