Through the faint street light seeping through the cracks of the blinds, he was able to study his sleeping wife’s face. She had a pained expression plastered on.  It was the same face that she confronted him with all of those morning-afters where he desperately just wanted to disappear back into his haze.  As he slid out of bed he thought about how much he had resented that face; he couldn’t help but think that maybe she was really awake and couldn’t muster the energy and courage to open her eyes and actually stop him. “Cowar,” he muttered almost inaudibly; the exact second before he let the “d” come out of his mouth, he was stopped by his own stabbing self-loathing; that feeling only served as a stronger propellant for him and he hastily dug out a stained tee shirt and pair of faded jeans from the hamper by the door.  He walked back towards the bed and carefully picked up his wallet, keys and cell phone from the night stnad. Then, he slid the phone and wallet into his pant’s pocket while holding the keys tightly in his hand so as to keep them from jingling. Standing at their door, he grasped the brass door knob; turning it clockwise while simultaneously lifting the lock somehow minimized the creaking of the door hinges.  Opening the door just enough for him to slip his tall slender frame out, he maneuvered his body out of the room and gave his wife another glance before leaving the door ajar behind him.  In his boxers, with his clothes draped over one arm still, he took light, deliberate steps towards the stairs at the end of the hallway.  He picked up his pace while walking by the last two closed doors on his right.  He turned left onto the wooden staircase and continued thoughtfully stepping. Every two steps of the 24 step staircase, he would turn his head back up to the dimly lit hallway behind him.   Once he was standing at the front door, he stepped into his jeans, zipped and buttoned them, and then put his head and arms through his tee shirt.  Unlocking the door and turning the knob, he pulled the door closed and stuck his key in to lock it.

            Finally reaching his newly traded in Volvo station wagon, he inhales, smelling the new upholstery of the car and then orients himself with the automatic shifter. He had been driving a manual Camaro since he could remember.  He turns his key into the ignition and the voice of a male DJ blasts in his ears startling him to gasp.  Turning the radio back down, he looks at the clock as he pulls out of the driveway.  It was 1:27 a.m. and he let out an exhale in relief.  “1:30, back before 5, two hour nap, kids to school,work,” he recited to himself.  Pulling into the parking space in front of the Gaslight, an inconspicuous local pub frequented for the last four years by five men he had known nothing about, except for alcohol preferences, he felt disdain and comfort.  Walking in, he noticed two of the five regulars participating in their typical incoherent drunken banter at the bar, so he continued to walk towards the furthest end, away from the light and away from the men that bore disonconcerting resemblances to his dead beat father. 

"Maker's Mark?" the weathered bartender asks. He nods.  Five hours and eight drinks later, he pulls out the phone from his pocket.  It was 6:30.  All he could think about was sinking into the oblivion of the 1500 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets his wife had bought in an epitomizing attempt to improve their sex life.  He assembled as much urgency as he could and intently walked to his car and started the engine.  Breaking at the stop light, he cradles his heated face in his hands.  Moving his foot off the break, he lets the car roll into the intersection.