-

It was a white knuckle evening,

in the fall of my third year

at the university, and I was

painting a portrait of Julia

in the art building on the

outskirts of campus and

I had a bottle of

Smirnoff vodka in

one hand, and a

paintbrush in

the other.

This was

my pattern

on those frigid

nights. I preferred

solitude over company,

and the dim light of the

art studio contrasted fully with

the colors splashed on the floor from

previous students, who like me wept,

and painted adolescent loves on

the brink of a full blown drunk-

stagger moonlight wail of

frustration about how I

couldn't get the shading

right, and the tint

of her green eyes

was too dark

from my

recollection.

But the essence

was there, and her

blond hair had developed

like it should, waterfalling

down her shoulders, so I continued

to rework the first masterpiece of my

life into something recognizable to my heart,

which wasn't easy, as I was growing tired

from the vodka droplets that lingered

on my lips after I turned the bottle

up, and sank recklessly close to the

stone-earth lowest I had ever been,

sometimes memories swallow whole

what we wish most to depart

from, but a sudden October

nightwind roared through

the unlit hallway, and

I knew then that

everything in

adulthood

costs more

than you want

to pay, and I was

spirit-broke and dreaming

about a person miles away from

this me; and of Julia as well.

-