As Gabriel took a swig from his fifth, possibly sixth (who could really remember anyway?), beer of the afternoon, he wondered when the numbness would finally kick in. It seemed lately that he needed to drink more and more in order to forget everything that had happened.
The loss of his girlfriend, the loss of his job (“Gabriel, only you are to blame for this,” his boss had said) and now, the lost hope of any reconciliation with any of the people he had once been lucky enough to call friends, was overwhelming.
He went to set the bottle down on the floor beside him, but managed to knock it over instead and spill it everywhere.
“Merde!” he cursed.
He always resorted to his native language when he was angry. Or sad. When he was both, he seemed to lose all ability to speak English.
What was going to happen now? he thought to himself. Here I am, in my mid-thirties with nothing left of my previous life and nothing to look forward to.
She’d been right, he concluded. He was fucked up. And you’ve spilt your beer, he thought to himself. I need another.
Passing the calendar on his wall, he noticed that it was nearly the end of December. A whole year had passed and despite some things changing around him, he was still the same, doing the same things and getting no where.
She wasn’t though. She was moving ahead in leaps and bounds. After they’d split, his girlfriend had tried to reconcile with him more than once and he’d pushed her away yet again. What the fuck was wrong with him?!
But she’s come out on top, his subconscious whispered. Yet you, my friend, have hit rock bottom. And that’s where you deserve to stay.
Maybe a new start was what he needed. Maybe I should move too, he thought to himself.
Maybe you should reconsider having another beer, his subconscious spoke up again.
Maybe, he thought, but then he reached into the fridge for another and said to himself, “Maybe next year…”