I’m hit with a tidal wave of memories. Sitting on our couch, two bottles in, a giant bowl of popcorn on his lap, marathoning LOTR, which was a yearly thing for him. It bored me to tears, so he’d get me tipsy and then I’d fall asleep. Or, sitting in bed with the iPad and a bar of chocolate, him reading while I binged Vanderpump Rules. Italy, getting drunk on red wine in a street-side cafe in Florence, telling the server to choose the wine for us because who the hell knows anything about all those weird, obscure, Italian name wines anyway? It’s all good, especially once you’re four glasses in and the world is topsy-turvy and beautiful with that golden Italian sunshine.

All that, in one sip.

I take the bottle with me as I head outside to the little dock. It’s maybe twenty feet long, with four shoulder-high posts weathered gray and stained with bird poop. There’s an Adirondack chair and a small table, handmade by whoever built the cabin and a lot of the stuff in it. It’s deep, and comfortable.

The sunset is breathtaking.

I hurt, all over. Grief and anger are physical. I can taste them. Feel them in the tension in my shoulders. Relax? Ha. I have to think about breathing. Each breath, I have to tell myself to suck it in, and let it out. Take another breath. Keep breathing.

The wine rolls in my mouth, tumbles in my belly. I should have eaten first. But then, I haven’t been properly drunk since my bender after the funeral. I know I should go slow, take it easy. But…how?

I think the alcohol does something to the anger. Metabolizes it, somehow. Half a glass, and I’m feeling it. I’ve not been a teetotaler the past year, but I’ve not gotten drunk. I’d rather work. If I were to get drunk, I think I feared I’d end up feeling things I was trying to hide from.

Well? Here we go.

The bottle lightens, and so does the pressure in my skull.

I miss you, Adrian.

I hate you for leaving.

Come back, goddamn you.

Hold me.

I’ve cried myself out, I think. I don’t weep. I sit on the dock and slowly get drunk, watching the sun impale itself on the pines. A fish leaps, sending ripples skidding across the surface. I think about him. The good times, for now. I can’t go back to the horrors of his death, not yet. For now, I just have to let myself remember him.

Start there.

The sunset fades into a purple sky, and the air cools. My feet are bare, and my toes are cold.

The bottle is empty, and the stars are making their first appearance.

I think of our one and only attempt at camping.