The vacuum

The car dropped her at the corner. A block away, across the street. The darkness reflected off the pavement as it does after a rain. The moon was full. Its face looking up at her in every puddle. She took a seat at a table this time. Normally she would sit at the bar. Disappear there amongst the row  of stools and mostly men, mostly sitting alone and pulled away enough to bend their knees and twist towards a game playing off to the side. But this time she took a seat in the corner. She felt uneasy and didn’t want her back exposed. She had graduated to taking her vodka straight now. Sometimes on the rocks with a twist but she was cold tonight. She took it neat. A vacancy welled from beneath her soul. Her day taking from her more than what she could keep. She didn’t let him drive her home afterwards. It was over. Perhaps left to rot in a back alley dumpster or maybe it was burned. She didn’t know what they did with it once it was gone. She tried to not think about it. The bar was always quieter on Tuesday nights. The week still fresh, people not yet worn enough to drink. Starting over again. The regulars didn’t know what day it was though. Their golden steins and amber crystals— meditating on a molar of permeable discomfort. Every couple of breaths her chest felt heavy. It felt like trapped fog. Sadness growled from within. Perhaps it was remorse. Or guilt. Or maybe it was grief sitting there at the table with her forcing her to make eye contact. She shot the rest of her vodka and left. She decided to walk home. Exhausting what was left of herself onto the city streets like a virus. Going back home less than she was when she woke up that morning. She could feel new callouses forming. Hardening the soft spots of her that scarcely remained. It seemed that there was almost no space left to decay until now. And it surprised her how comforting it felt. To know now that this hurt could be used as a barrier. A tomb. She decided right then that she would bury it deep. And she decided to never speak of it again.