Tell me a lie, don’t make it hurt,

The pain in my chest won’t go away.

Don’t tell me the truth, I can’t face what’s to come.

I’ll yell and I’ll kick, I’ll fight it, I’ll run.

Don’t tell me the truth, I don’t want to hear.

Tell me pretty lies with whispers sincere.

The chill on my skin lingers and flows down my shoulders. It’s an odd sensation that travels across my arms and I’d like to blame it on the alcohol, but I’ve felt it all day. From the very start of this morning, before the drinks came easier and easier. For days, really, I’ve been feeling this strange sensation of not quite being in my own body. As if I’m not really here. This isn’t really happening to me.

It’s been going on for more than a few days if I’m honest … maybe even weeks, but I’ve been ignoring the signs and whispers, pretending like they weren’t real.

Now that this sickness won’t leave me, I can’t deny it.

Ever since I let the words slip through my lips.

I hate you.

You’re a fucking liar.

I want a divorce.

An ache in my chest prompts me to take a sip of wine. Letting it slide down my throat, I pretend that it soothes me. It’s numbing, that’s what it is. That’s what I need. Tears prick at my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. Instead a shuddering breath leaves me and I lift up my glass, downing the remaining wine. It’s too sweet for being so dark.

Startled by a sound from the floor above me, the glass nearly tips over as I set it down quickly to wipe under my eyes. I don’t want him to see me cry; I won’t let him. But the creak I heard was a false alarm. I don’t hear the heavy footsteps of him coming down the stairs to our townhouse. I’m still alone in the dining room, waiting for him to leave.

Left only with bittersweet memories and the constant question: How did this happen?

The thick, dark drapes behind me are pulled shut but even they can’t completely drown out the night sounds of busy New York City. There’s always a bit that travels through. It used to bother me when I initially moved here, but now it’s soothing. It calms me as my gaze drifts toward the empty stairwell, where it lingers.

I shouldn’t be drunk, not when I’m supposed to be preparing to meet with a potential client tomorrow. As one of the top literary agents in New York City, I’m damn good at what I do but tonight, I don’t care.